Oscar Explosion's Confession
by Jekeyfer
Summary: Oscar Explosion is ordered by the court of Florida to make a very disturbing confession about the horrible things he's done to his son, Nathan. WARNING Not for the faint of heart. Oscar tortures and abuses Nathan. DON'T READ if heavy subject matter bothers you! Rated for VERY graphic torture, gore, child abuse, violence, Nathan being orally pleasured :non-incest: VERY HARD MATERIAL


**Why I Need Therapy by Oscar Explosion**

_A written exercise in confession and accountability_

_Sealed by The Criminal Justice Department of Florida: Outpatient rehabilitation programme_

My name is Oscar Explosion, and I have a problem. Or you, my court ordered shrink, say I do anyways. You tell me my biggest problem is that I don't think I have a problem. But what the hell do you expect? I don't miss work to come to these stupid therapy sessions every Wednesday by choice! I've been ordered by the state of Florida to attend weekly psychological counselling that I don't think I need. Last time I checked, Nathan was MY son! I should be allowed to raise my kid however the hell I damn well please without the government stepping in and fucking everything up! But hey, if it keeps me out of prison, fine. I'll play along, I'll go to my stupid appointments and do your dumb pointless exercises.

Well, I guess my "problem" you so smugly speak of is the pleasure I get out of inflicting pain on people. I'd remind you once again that I really fail to see the issue, seeing as how I've managed to control my urges around people that I have no rightful claim of ownership over, but I suppose you'll again say that I never "owned" my son simply because he is a human being. I'm sorry, but I don't see how Nathan being biologically human has anything to do with owning him. He's mine, I brought him into this world. His mother and I, simply by being his parents, were always legally required to maintain guardianship over him until he turned 18. If that doesn't qualify as a rightful ownership over his personhood until he came of age, I don't see what possibly could. But hey, you'll tell me with that smug expression on your face that's the whole reason I'm here. So fine, my "problem" is I am a sadist and I, without the slightest sense of empathy or remorse, made a victim of my own son. Whatever.

Yes, I will freely admit to this, I absolutely _loved_ torturing Nathan. I always did. Especially once he became old enough to realize what was happening to him. But I remember the urges becoming far more intense and the "abuse" I doled out to him much more severe by about his fifth birthday. You try to tell me it's because I secretly hate him and resent his birth because it was unplanned, but I can honestly look you in the eye and say that's not true and you don't know shit. I'll concede that my life was easier before I was forced to marry his mother and spend over half my pay cheque on clothing and school for the little bastard. And lord knows how much I loved telling him his very existence had destroyed all my reasons to live just to see that sweet look of anguish and melancholy on his face. But I don't hate him. What was there ever to hate, after all? At five years old, Nathan was a drop dead gorgeous little boy with jet-black hair, skin like white china, and bright emerald green eyes. He would stop people dead in their tracks with just one stare from across the street. His mother and I received countless compliments on him every time we took him outside. People just flocked around him, called him a boy Snow White, asked us where he got his stunning blue-black hair and if it was natural. Any father in his right mind would be proud to call such a beautiful child his son. And he was usually for the most part, a well-behaved kid. Mostly quiet and reserved, usually speaking only when spoken to. What can I say except he was naturally taciturn? Or maybe he was just afraid of me. He certainly had every reason to be. In fact, that was half the point. Teach the child to obey before he disobeys. It rarely fails in the long run to keep them out of trouble. The other point was the fun of it all. I had always wanted to be able to hurt someone, I mean really _really_ hurt them, and the desire to do so had grown and grown inside me until it was finally ready to boil over. And though Nathan was a baby born out of mistake, I finally found my release in this new little life I had unwittingly brought into the world and now held in my hands. It had been a long time coming, this beautiful release. I loved beating him into submission, since the day I was finally able to do so without killing him.

He was one year old when I hit him for the first time. His mother and I were sitting in church during a sermon when he began cooing and making cute little baby noises. Other parishioners sitting around us were turning their heads to look at us and smile, admiring our baby and the sweet sounds he was making. But I'd had a bit too much to drink the night before and was becoming increasingly frustrated with my little boy for being noisy during church.

"Shhhhhh!" I kept hissing at him under my breath. "Nathan, be quiet!" But he wouldn't stop his incessant giggling and babbling. His mother, being of no help as always, just looked straight ahead with Nathan sitting on her lap, refusing to acknowledge either his impropriety or my displeasure, and my irritation slowly turned to anger. Then Nathan began to whimper a little bit, probably hungry. And then he squealed "Buh-bah!" loudly into the echoey chapel. Parishioners around us giggled randomly with adoration, a few even went "Awww". Even the kindly vicar giving the sermon seemed to take notice, a slight twinkle in his eyes. But I was infuriated. Now was not the time or place for my child to be stealing the attention in the room, and I had told him over and over again to shut up. I decided right then and there that Nathan was as ready as ever to learn discipline, and I was going to teach him his first lesson in manners. Quietly and calmly, I took my son from my wife's arms and excused myself from the sermon. I carried him through the parking lot back to the car, then looked around to make sure no one was within view or earshot. And then I lifted my hand. Before I even realized what I was doing, I had already brought it down hard on his face with a loud furious slap, and he was screaming his head off. His shrill cries pierced through the air and reverberated through my eardrums so violently I actually jumped back. I had never heard Nathan, or any child, scream like that. But as I watched the tears stream down that sweet innocent little face of his, now contorted in pain and shock, and heard his anguished blood curdling howls, I felt no guilt or shame over what I had just done. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I felt alive, invigorated, and refreshed, like an entire ten years worth of stress and pressure had been instantly lifted away. How long had I been waiting to relieve those urges, those desires that had plagued me since before I could remember? Now, at last I had set myself free. I had gotten my first taste of another human being's pain and I wanted more. So much more. With a primal roar I slapped his other cheek, and he screeched even louder in his growing agony as I shouted back at him: "Shut up! _Shut up_! How many times did I tell you in there?! How many times do I have to tell you again to shut up?!" I continued to yell and slap him across his tiny face, his fragile chest, his belly, his back, his legs, just all over. But I didn't really want him to shut up anymore. I wanted him to scream louder. His shrill screams and sobs were already loud enough to make the car doors rattle, but they were sweet music to my ears. I wanted to hear and see his pain in my memories and my dreams forever, I wanted to leave a lasting imprint on his tiny innocent soul. With fervour I continued to slap, pummel and beat upon my little boy until I was sweating and gasping for breath from the physical exertion. Nathan had long since screamed himself hoarse and his eyes were red and swollen from crying. I finally stopped and attempted to get a grip on myself, realizing a few more slaps could easily concuss or possibly even kill him. He may not have had a soft spot on top of his head anymore, but he was still a one year old with soft brittle bones wrapped in thin delicate flesh. He was covered in deep red marks all over his tiny body that would later become bruises of the most ghastly size and colour I had ever seen on another living person, even after all my years spent in the military. I beamed upon my work with pride. I wouldn't need to worry about his mother. His well meaning, but naive and dull witted mother. I knew I could come up with an excuse for the bruises that she would believe simply because she wanted to believe it. As Nathan's screams slowly simmered down to pitiful exhausted sobs and moans, I grabbed his face with one hand and squeezed his chubby infant cheeks between my fingers as I glared hard into his eyes.

"Listen to me, you little shit! When I say 'be quiet' I expect you to be quiet, understand?!" I actually have no idea if Nathan at the age of one could understand my words or not, but I vividly remember him gazing up at me wide eyed with a mixture of terror and anguish on his heartbroken face. His sobs faded to whimpers and then finally silence. Trembling, he lowered his head and stared down sullenly at his little feet without making another peep. A sheen of gloom, misery, and darkness had now washed over his once bright rosy face that had beamed with innocent happiness and curiosity just fifteen short minutes ago. Had I, in this one act of self-indulgence, already scarred my baby boy for life? Was his life at the tender age of one already ruined and traumatized by my very first fit of violent actions? I couldn't know for sure if that was possible, but the thought thrilled me immensely! I couldn't remember the last time I ever felt so alive. Nathan stared down with his shaking hands folded against his little chest and didn't look up again. It didn't seem to matter if he could understand what I was saying or not. He was certainly being quiet now, too terrified to even breath out loud. And all it took was a few more beatings later on to silence him long term, leaving him only to scream, cry, and complain when my fists or the backs of my hands connected with his flesh, just like I wanted. He didn't utter a single word to me or anyone else until he turned five years old and I gave him permission to speak. With kindergarten coming up, he would need to be able to talk freely like the rest of his classmates so as not to arouse suspicion of what could be going on at home. I gave him the ok to talk aloud, although I would dearly miss seeing him fight with himself to keep quiet at all costs in my presence. But no matter. I would find something new to do to him to make up for the loss of that one satisfaction in a very short time.

Nathan, at the tender age of five, learned the painful price of his new speaking privileges very quickly. I no longer could use the excuse that he was being too noisy to tear into him nearly as often as I used to and it was slowly driving me crazy. After having once been able to simply serve up a lovely beating just because I heard him "trying to speak when he wasn't supposed to" and then suddenly not being able to do that anymore, I experienced an almost immediate deterioration in my moods. My new resulting restrictions were proving very difficult for me to adjust to. His mother knew by now that I beat him, but I was always quick to come up with a decent enough rationalization for her to blindly accept in her one simple desire to keep the family together. But now my main reason behind the beatings that I used most often of all was gone. I had to sit on my hands for the first time in four years and I was not dealing with it well. Not at all. One day, after about a month of this annoyance, I was storming through the hall ready to explode and almost tripped and fell over one of her shoes. I raged and picked up her stupid high heel, ready to use it to smash a hole in the wall, when suddenly a light bulb went off in my head. I stopped. My little boy was growing up, he had new privileges, and with growing up and privileges came responsibilities. There was something I could make him do.

"Nathan!" I shouted from across the hall. He came running from his room as fast as he could, not wanting to anger me by making me wait too long.

"Nathan," I began. "You're five years old now. If you're old enough to talk and go to school, you're old enough to do chores, right?"

Nathan just nodded solemnly.

"Here," I shoved Rose's high heel at him. "Put your mum's shoe away."

He held the shoe in his little hands and looked at me with a puzzled expression.

"Where does it go?" he asked.

"The closet in our bedroom where all her shoes are!" I barked at him. His eyes grew wide.

"I'm sorry." he replied quickly.

"Go! Hurry up!" I planted my hand on his back and gave him a quick shove, sending him running down the hall towards our bedroom. When he ran back out, I was right on top of him again.

"Did you put it in the right place?" I asked him impatiently.

"Yes, daddy." he said, looking up at me, already on edge.

"Good. Come with me." I ordered and marched down the hall, leading him to the kitchen.

"Clean it." was all I said. He looked around the room with a confused and nervous expression on his tiny face.

"But I don't know how." He began to fidget.

I took a few steps closer to him and leaned right into his face.

"Are you talking back to me?" I poked my finger in his chest.

"No," he responded hastily, shaking a little bit. "I just don't know what to do."

"What do you mean you don't know what to do? You've seen your mother clean hundreds of times! Just do whatever she does!"

Nathan turned his head to the side and wrinkled his brow at the daunting task.

"Clean it." I repeated and stormed out into the living room. I heard Nathan breath a heavy sigh. From the corner of my eye I could see him lift a washrag. I shrugged, unsure of how good a job he could possibly do, but I figured I could at least relax for a while, have a few beers, try to de-stress before his mother came home. I headed downstairs to the den and took about thirty minutes to unwind. When I came back with about 6 beers in me, Nathan was still standing in the same spot holding the same washrag, and I almost tore into him for wasting time, but stopped when I got a good look at the room. It actually looked a lot better than it did when I left it. The counters were wiped down, the floor had been sweeped and scrubbed mostly clean, even the dishes seemed to be put away in the right place. I had to admit I was actually impressed with my son's work. Not a bad job for a five year old who had never cleaned a room besides his own before. I nodded as I looked around.

"Hmmm." I said. "Ok. Alright. Not terrible. Maybe I'll start having you help out more around here."

Nathan gave me a slight tentative smile as I looked around nodding my approval, until something caught my eye. From underneath the wedge of the kitchen counter, I saw what looked like a small blue triangle and when I crouched down to see what it was, I heard Nathan give a short gasp. I picked it up and his little body began to tremble. It was a blue china plate shard, from a very expensive china dinnerware set. One of the best sets we had. Glaring into my son's frightened eyes, I held the china fragment just several inches from his face. A faint short whine escaped his lungs.

"What is this?" I inquired in a low steely tone. Nathan squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, slow tears began making their way down his cheeks.

"It's a piece of a plate." he squeaked.

"I can see that!" I growled. "How the hell did it get under the counter?"

He whimpered. "I broke it."

"Yeah, obviously! What were you doing, trying to balance it on your head?! Do you have any idea how much these plates cost?!" I threw the shard against the wall as hard as I could. Nathan flinched and grimaced as it went flying across the room.

"I didn't mean to." he wept. "It was wet and it slipped outta my hand."

"And you weren't going to tell me, is that it?! You were just going to sweep the pieces off the floor and dump them in the waste basket and act like it never happened!" I grabbed him by his shoulder and squeezed. He yelped with fear.

"I was too scared to tell you." he sobbed. "I knew you would get really mad."

"Oh, I'll show you really mad!" I retorted, before rearing my hand back and landing it against the side of his head. He screamed and fell backwards, but before he could hit the floor I caught him by his shirt and lifted him up in the air to slap him across the face with another furious backhand. I gave him a few more good hard slaps before I finally let him fall to the ground, and he sat hunched over himself bawling with his legs splayed out at an angle and one hand to his head. Deep red droplets mixed with tears fell from his face and splashed onto the white kitchen tiles. His nose and mouth were bleeding. I grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back, and he let out a quick shriek of pain and terror. I inspected his face, making sure his nose wasn't broken and the cuts in his mouth weren't too deep. As soon as I was reassured, I raised my fist and sent it crashing into his gut, knocking the wind clean out of him. He fell flat to the floor, laying on his side and tucking his legs into his body, but not all the way in. He tried to scream, but found himself choking and gasping for air instead. Then he threw up and sobbed silently, struggling and straining just to catch his breath. I let him lie there for a few minutes, giving him a chance to recover his voice. Lord if I didn't love to hear those screams. When his sobs became audible again, I kicked him in one of his little thighs. He squealed.

"Get up, Nathan!" I ordered. "Stand up straight, you little prick!"

Sobbing and struggling, Nathan slowly lifted himself to his feet, letting his head hang down. His face was wet and sticky with his blood and tears, and strands of his raven black hair clung to his cheeks and neck. He held his stomach weakly with one arm and his thigh with the other, shaking and weeping bitterly. I stood over him savouring his dread and anxiety over what was coming next. I let him stew in his own terror for a few minutes as I pondered my next move. Looking down at his arm, I noticed it had become streaked with his blood. Strange but lovely patterns of red horizontal stripes made their way up and down his white skin. They looked sort of like welts, I thought to myself.

"Take your shirt off, Nathan!" I ordered. He looked up at me with pleading crying eyes, unsure as to why I was demanding this of him and terrified to find out, but he did what he was told. When his tiny shirt fell to the floor, I kicked it to the side and slowly undid my belt. My poor little boy looked just as confused as he did horrified. He lowered his face to his hands and keened.

"Nathan, pay attention!" I yelled. He continued to sob and lifted his head to stare wide eyed at the belt doubled up in my hand, its heavy bronze buckle dangling menacingly in front. With only one hand, I was able to grab both of his small wrists and lift his arms high above his head.

"This is to teach you never to try and hide things from your parents!" I announced before lashing the leather and metal against the side of his ribcage. It landed hard into his bones with a loud slap followed by a sickening hollow thud. He howled in pain as the strap and buckle connected with his flesh. Another lash landed against his belly and the buckle went hurtling into his hipbone. A third lash cracked him painfully in his armpits. He screamed and his legs gave out from under him. I let go of his arms and let him fall back down to the ground crying and cowering on his knees. I cracked him again and the buckle smashed against his back. Another crack landed the leather on the back of his neck and sent the buckle careening into the back of his skull. Blindly and without clear regard anymore as to where the belt landed, I thrashed my son about a dozen more times. He lay on the floor curled up in the foetal position now, bawling in agony and covered neck to navel in hideous red welts and bruises. He had locked his knees into his chest with his arms wound tightly around them in a desperate attempt to protect himself. I couldn't help but laugh. With relative ease I was able to unfold his tiny body and keep him pinned down with his back against the floor. Then I whipped him several more times all over his fragile torso. He screeched and wailed, beside himself with pain as the belt marked up his tender flesh again and again. I would have literally gone on forever if I could, but a few more lashings left me all but zapped of my energy. My pulse was racing and I had to stop and rest. I stared down, exhilarated, at my sobbing child. I could at last feel my stress begin to alleviate. Nathan looked indescribably beautiful as he lay on the ground trembling and shaking, covered in a ghastly mess of throbbing aching red lesions. For the first time in four weeks, I felt good again. Rejuvenated, I stood up and gazed with adoration at my comely weeping child. What to do next? Smoking usually helped me focus and come up with some great ideas. 'I could sure use a cigarette' I thought to myself, then I stared back down at Nathan. His skinny little legs lay practically untouched, and so much white flesh was still left between all the purplish-red welts on his back and torso. He could take more. So much more. I smiled ear to ear and ordered him to remove his pants, then sneered venomously into his sobbing petrified face as I held him down on the floor and lit my first cigarette.

"And this," I said, "is for breaking a piece of our best china dinnerware set."

I lost count of how many times I burned Nathan that evening, lighting and relighting cigarette after cigarette and putting them out all over his body. Most of the fun came with exploring the sensitivity levels of all his different parts. I found that burning him on his inner thighs and the backs of his legs, his armpits and behind his knees, the bottoms of his feet, and all over his abdomen, especially in and around the belly button, won me the loudest and most devastating screams. When it was finally all over and I had run out of cigarettes, I felt like a new man. I could scarcely even remember being unhappy several hours before. My adorable little Nathan worked better than any medicine, tonic, or herbal remedy I could take for my mood. Knowing I had gone overboard, I told my wife that Nathan had been beaten up by some neighbourhood bullies, enjoyed a fantastic supper, and slept better than ever that night.

More than half of Nathan's chores from that day since were only assigned for him to mess up on, providing me with a wealth of new reasons to "punish him". The highlights of my weeks were times spent looming over Nathan and scrutinizing his every move as he attempted to complete a task given to him that was next to impossible by design. Any little mistake would earn him a brand new session with my fist, boot, or backhand. Two little mistakes or one big one would be met with a whipping or burning ritual that got just a little bit worse and worse each time. Is it any wonder my precious child grew up to be such a perfectionist? Always second guessing himself, always shunning mediocrity, always needing to do a flawless job. Nathan is almost certainly fated to either burn himself out at an early age, or attain unprecedented levels of success. Should the latter occur, I hope he will remember exactly how he was moulded and shaped for that path. May he remember every burn, every bruise, every mark. Fear and secrecy remained an absolutely vital component to my relationship with Nathan throughout his entire childhood and adolescence. I never shirked in my duties to coach him on what to tell CPS if they were to ever show up at our house. I swore to him after every beating that I would torture him to death if he dared call the cops on me himself. With everything I had done to him before, what reason did he have not to believe me? But should I ever see my son on tv, in the news, on the cover of a magazine, or even as a sad low life guest desperately seeking help on some stupid day time tv talk show, I would love so much to hear him spill his heart and soul out over all the ways I hurt him then. It would be such a dream come true to see and hear that agony once more so I can savour and relish the horrifying effect it continues to have on him.

At just 8 years old, Nathan was a dark and gloomy child who barely spoke a word and spent most of his time alone. He was a wiry but skinny little thing, usually eating no more than a few bites of any meal his mother cooked for him. His stomach was constantly nervous, he threw up a lot and felt nauseous most of the time. The only reason he didn't get picked on at school was because all the bullies were afraid of him. Those beautiful bright green jewels for eyes he had could also pierce daggers from hell into your soul if that was what he wanted to do. I was probably the only person on earth immune to his "death stare", seeing as how I was the one who ultimately gave it to him. He wore black every single day. When his mother asked him why he was so adamant about only wearing the shirts she bought for him that were black, he would say "Because other colours look too happy. They don't look the way I feel right now." and she would laugh good-naturedly and say he was adorable. I couldn't tell if she truly was that daft, or if she was just so wrapped up in her own denial that she couldn't see what was happening to her son. His soul was being crushed, eaten away. He was dying inside and mourning his own slow death, and he was only in 2nd grade. I loved the darkness and dreariness that had consumed little Nathan. It served as the sweetest testament to all my efforts. What kind of work could I claim to be doing if my son was still a bright and bouncy thing after 7 years of nonstop torture in one form or another? The way he expressed it was delicious. Every day, even on days I didn't beat him, I still got to see his pain, taste it, breath it, immerse myself in it. He was becoming a living walking reflection, a billboard even, of the constant damage I inflicted on him, and I loved it. I loved it so much.

Nathan's suffering became such a prevalent source of enrichment in my life, that eventually it even lead to my ability to find a bit of enjoyment and purpose in my own pain. By sheer coincidence, I began experiencing a small but continuing assortment of dental problems at around the same time Nathan began to lose his baby teeth. Much to my annoyance, these various irritations still persisted in an on again off again fashion 2 whole years after they first started. I'd estimate it was about 3-4 weeks after Nathan's 8th birthday when a toothache sent me to the dentist's office and I was handed the grim news that extraction was my only option. The process of having the bad tooth pulled was painless enough in itself. All I had to endure were two quick pinches with a needle from the Novocain injections, and the removal itself felt like little more than a few light tugs along my gum line. But the recovery process was nothing short of a nightmare. I was prescribed only a limited supply of painkillers to assist me through the healing period. Each dose alleviated the throbbing pain in my mouth for maybe 4 hours at the most. I ran out of pills quickly and was unable to obtain more due to the main ingredient being an opiate based analgesic, a high risk drug for dependency issues. The last few days of recovery were pure hell. I spent most of my time wanting to smash my aching head straight through the wall. Meanwhile, little Nathan seemed to be handling his dental exfoliation with relative ease. His baby teeth were falling out at a slow and steady rate. At age 8, he had 7 permanent teeth grown in, four in the front up top, and three front teeth at the bottom. During the last few days and nights I spent in unrelenting discomfort, only two more of Nathan's remaining baby teeth just barely began to come loose. He hardly seemed bothered by the whole thing at all, not that he dared complain about anything in front of me most of the time anyways. I wasn't jealous or even bitter, but I found myself shaking my head as I reflected on the irony of the situation. While Nathan appeared to breeze through the loss of 7 teeth with two more just now on the way out, I was experiencing what felt like my own personal Armageddon from just one. I knew there was, of course, a dramatic difference between losing a tooth via the natural process of growing up and having to get one surgically removed, but the idea itself still struck me as funny and a little bit backwards. My son remained alert and unmedicated for the entire several week long duration of his dental roots being dissolved before his teeth were slowly wriggled away and torn from bleeding flesh while hardly batting an eye. I was anesthetized and nursed on painkillers throughout the worst half of my ordeal, and I was just about ready to chop my own head off. I could only imagine how excruciating the procedure of dental extraction must have been before anaesthesia and painkillers were invented. My god! How could anyone even survive through that much pain? And what I would have given to see that! I caught myself smiling a little bit at the thought. It must have been entertaining, to say the least. I wondered if teeth pulling back in the days of yore was treated like a spectator event, kind of like public executions or medieval surgery. Did people come out to see it? Bring their families, set up picnics, get drunk and cheer on the screams of the poor bastard getting his tooth removed? It must have been used, at least somewhere, on some scale, as a method of torture to force out false confessions of witchcraft or what-have-you back in those days too. Teeth pulling just for the sake of pain. Nice healthy teeth that weren't ready to come out. It would have been very very effective. I wondered how young some of the poor souls accused of these various offenses were who had to endure this agony, knowing that some children even younger than my Nathan were ultimately tried and executed for the sins of witchcraft, treachery, theft, and so on. As always, my thoughts turned to Nathan when I contemplated the delightful subject of torture. Having a healthy intact tooth torn out from raw unmedicated flesh would be unspeakably painful for the unlucky victim. Absolutely unimaginable. For the first time all week, I was actually grateful for the pain I got to experience first hand. It gave me perspective, insight, a much more appreciative point of view. I was so glad that tomorrow my wife was leaving on a 2 week vacation to visit her family.

The next morning I woke up early to see my wife off. I helped her pack 3 suitcases into our good car and tuned randomly in and out as she rattled off a billion instructions on how to take care of the house, Nathan, our dog, etc. Naturally, I really wasn't interested. I just wanted to get her out of the driveway as soon as possible so I could spend some quality time with my son. Man did those butterflies in my stomach go crazy when she was finally gone. Just to stay on the safe side, I waited for about 30 minutes after she left to be sure she wasn't coming back to grab something she forgot. When it was clear she wasn't going to be turning the car around any time soon, I went inside to go have breakfast and waited for Nathan to wake up. It was Saturday and I had promised his mother I would allow him to sleep in just this one day out of the week. I stuck to it even though she was gone, figuring he would need all the rest he could get. It was going to be a long exhausting day for that boy.

Before Nathan was born, a few friends and I got together and dug out a lovely cellar beneath our house. It was a nice big extra room beamed by a concrete foundation, completely underground and surrounded on all four sides by tightly packed soil. A heavy wooden door with draft padding underneath helped to keep the room cool and dry. It was originally built to be a wood shop area for myself, but it ultimately became Rose's generic storage room where she hoarded all her stupid possessions she never used but refused to throw away. Eventually, after several fights over it, I finally gave up and started using it every once in a while to store my stuff as well, after building a tool shed out back. I still made good use of the cellar, often times to just unwind and relax down there. It was so private and calm, not too mention completely silent. Soundproof even. No noises whatsoever from the house, the dog, or Nathan and Rose ever got in. Which also meant no noise could get out either. Not even a loud scream. It didn't matter if the neighbours were home on a Saturday. Not a single peep could escape that room. I decided to set up a nice little makeshift work area for myself down there while Nathan was still asleep. I had enough time. He usually didn't wake up until about 11am on a Saturday. I finished up and brought the toolbox over from my shed, then went upstairs to see if Nathan was awake yet, eager to spend time with my child. My beautiful dark and stormy eyed child. He was finally up and sitting in the living room silently with a look of deep-seated pain, sorrow, and anger behind his emerald eyes, staring down at his own hands in his lap and blinking slowly. He always had that look on his face now. His tiny brow always slightly furrowed. How I loved that adorable permanent scowl he wore. It made me want to eat him alive.

"Nathan," I began nonchalantly. "How long has it been since you lost your last baby tooth?"

Nathan shrugged and mumbled "I dunno. A month maybe." He kept his head down and didn't look at me.

"Hmmm. You've only lost 7 so far, right?" I quipped.

"Yeah," he said. "I think so."

I leaned forward and put my hand under his chin. "Look up." I ordered. He slowly lifted his face towards me, but tried his best to keep his eyes averted from mine.

"Open your mouth." I told him. He blinked and hesitated a bit, then nervously opened his mouth halfway. I looked inside his little pink maw, making a bit of a show out of inspecting it purposefully.

"You're not losing your teeth fast enough." I said. He then allowed our eyes to meet, a look of confusion on his face.

"I'm not?" he asked innocently.

"No." I replied casually. "You're 8 years old and you only have seven permanent teeth. You should have almost all of them by now. The rest of your baby teeth are blocking them from growing in."

Nathan raised an eyebrow at me slightly, with a quizzical expression on his face. "But my teacher said most kids don't grow all their new teeth until they're 12."

"He's just saying that to make the slow kids feel better. But you're not going to be one of them." I stated firmly. "We're going to fix your teeth. Come with me."

He continued to gaze at me with a puzzled look but he knew better than to argue with me about anything. Breathing heavily, he lifted himself up off the couch with a bit of an anxious gait and followed me downstairs to the cellar. He fidgeted a little as I locked the door behind me.

"Sit." I pointed to a chair near the back of the room by a small table. His slightly parted lips pouted a bit from nervousness but he obeyed.

"Now listen, Nathan," I instructed, standing over him. "This is not going to be fun, but it is very important. If we don't get rid of those baby teeth now, they could stay there forever, and your permanent teeth might never grow in. I know most of your teeth aren't loose right now, but they still need to come out. So we're going to do a little thing the dentist does to get rid of bad teeth called pulling."

Nathan tugged at the bottom of his black shirt a little bit. "So if we pull on my teeth that aren't loose, it'll make them looser?"

"No, Nathan." I shook my head. "I wish it were that easy, but it's not. It means I'm going to have to pull your teeth out. _All_ the way out. Even though they're not ready yet, they are still late. So it needs to be done."

Nathan's eyes grew wider and he shifted in his chair. "But those aren't loose at all. Won't that hurt?"

"Yes, it will Nathan." I gave him a fake sigh. "It's going to hurt a lot. But it is necessary, so you're going to have to be brave. You're a big boy now, you can do that right?"

He bit his lip and wrinkled his little forehead, and his scared eyes began to water just the tiniest bit, but he nodded and tried his best to sit up straight and tall. "Yes, I'm big. I can be brave." he announced, with a hint of pride in his voice. I almost laughed aloud, he was so adorable. But I forced myself to keep a serious face.

"Good." I nodded. I picked up a small wooden block I had set on the table. "Ok, open up." I said, holding it to his mouth. His eyes darted about the room for a few seconds, but as always, he did what he was told. As soon as he lowered his jaw to accept the block, I shoved my fingers inside his mouth and pushed his tiny tongue back before forcing the sharp cornered rectangular object past his teeth and jamming it inside, locking it in place. Nathan yelped and began to cry from the pain of having the block lodged into the soft flesh, but instantly tried to stop himself, remembering he was supposed to be brave. A little bit of blood began to seep around the block and pool under his tongue, mixing with his spit, and a few drops of light pink liquid trickled from his mouth. He tried his best to stay quiet and blink away his tears, whimpering silently and attempting to squelch the pain. His mouth was now effectively clipped open by the block, not too wide, but he wasn't able to close it either. The block was trapped and locked behind his teeth, pressed up against the roof of his mouth. He wouldn't be able to spit it out or remove it without my assistance, or until the obstructing teeth were gone. I opened my toolbox brought over from the shed and picked out a pair of pliers with a serrated grip. Nathan's eyes got huge and he shuddered, but insisted for the time being, on acting tough and staying glued to his chair.

"Good boy." I said. "Now I'm going to do the first tooth. Remember what I said about being brave, right?"

He nodded with a serious expression on his face and then squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the inevitable pain. I heard him inhale sharply and a faint wet clicking sound came from deep inside his throat. He was trying to hold his breath and lock his little larynx up, not wanting to scream. I chuckled to myself.

"Good luck with that." I thought.

I wrapped the pliers around one of his loosening baby teeth and wiggled it just to see _how_ loose it was. It barely jiggled back and forth, clearly indicating that most of the root was still intact. I smiled inwardly at this and grabbed Nathan's chin with my free hand to hold him still, then tightened my grip around his tiny tooth and yanked hard. The tooth tore free with a wet ripping sound followed by a gush of blood, and Nathan immediately forgot about trying to be brave. He screamed so loud I could actually feel my eardrums vibrating. Tears fell like icicles from his eyes and he collapsed into a fit of gut wrenching sobs. I smirked and slowly laid the first bloody tooth down on the table.

"Nathan, I thought you said you were going to be brave!" I shouted over his cries. He looked up at me with a delicious mixture of agony, fear, and a little bit of hatred on his tear and blood soaked face, but tried his best to straighten his posture and quiet himself down. He managed to stifle his loud sobbing into a low pitiful weeping sound and braced himself for the next pull. I found his second loose tooth, which was even less ready to come out than the first one, and yanked it free. He jumped in his chair and screeched even louder than before, spraying blood everywhere. I stood over him with my hands pressed firmly into his chest to hold him down and grinned ear-to-ear, unable to contain my exuberance any longer. I waited a few minutes, allowing my son to appreciate the full extent of his searing pain before ripping out the third tooth, this one completely in tact and probably not due to come loose for at least a few more months. It came out hard, harder than the other two, and Nathan's violent howls were clear evidence of the worsening agony that went with it. He was going insane, wailing and bellowing and shrieking like an animal as his body twisted and contorted, racked with sobs. By the fourth tooth, he was completely beside himself with pain. He bawled and tried desperately to get up and leave. When I grabbed him and forced him back down, he kicked and thrashed in a feverish and vain attempt to push me away with all his strength. When I reached for his next tooth, he clawed blindly at my hands in a state of panic. After the fifth tooth came out, he was so wild and out of control with agony, I had to move him to the floor and pin his arms above his head with my knees as I sat atop his little thighs to keep him still. He twisted and writhed and howled beneath me, frantic with pain. By the time I got to his molars, he had vomited twice, pissed all over himself and almost fainted. His voice was hoarse and his screams came out like gravel from his throat. Blood poured from each new wound in his mouth and choked him in between his deafening sobs. I tore out two molars from his top gums, and two molars from the bottom, leaving him with only four back teeth to chew. They were in there so tight with their deep thick roots, it took several hard twists and yanks on each tooth to rip them free, causing Nathan so much further excruciating pain that he finally lost consciousness and lay passed out in a pool of his own saliva, tears, and blood. I breathed in heavily and almost went into a daze myself. The smell of my son's blood, sweat, and heart pounding terror was absolutely intoxicating. Sweet, heady, feral, and raw. I would have bottled it if I could. I reached down and placed my hand on his chest and felt his heart slamming violently inside his rib cage. No wonder he had fainted, the poor boy was literally right on the verge of going into cardiac arrest. I lifted myself to my feet and felt my heart race a bit too. Bending down, I collected my son's tiny teeth from the ground and table, completely satisfied with the way everything had gone. I left Nathan where he was momentarily to go upstairs for cleaning supplies. The blood washed away from the hard smooth concrete floor and walls with ease, leaving no visible trace of what had occurred down there. I stopped up the bleeding in my little boy's mouth with gauze and carried him to the bathroom to bathe him in lukewarm water, not wanting to wake him. I knew he should be allowed to wake on his own after such an ordeal or he could risk going into shock. I figured he had earned a night's respite anyways.

Poor little Nathan could barely eat a thing for several days afterwards, he could barely even stand to move his jaw because of the pain. He stayed in his room and cried silently, unable to speak or make a sound without suffering violent pangs of agony. I called in sick for him at school and gave him about a week to recover from his injuries. At least enough so that none of the teachers would immediately notice anything was wrong with him. Well, not physically, anyways. His home room teacher would begin calling soon afterwards complaining that Nathan had become even more quiet and withdrawn than before. Sometimes he even refused to answer when called on in class, knowing he would get in trouble for not speaking, and yet still preferring to take the punishment of being sent to the principal's office rather than saying a word. He even witnessed a car crash right into his classroom, a bloody tragedy that made the local news, and reportedly watched the injuries that occurred without the slightest visible outward reaction. The principal was horrified by Nathan's cold and seemingly emotionless demeanour. She kept asking me if anything was going on at home that she should know about and I just calmly told her no and hung up. I truly wasn't worried about the school administration's concerns with his personality. Nathan knew what to say if they asked him anything anyways. I had coached him many times before. Why was he so unsociable? Because he was just shy. How did he lose all his teeth so suddenly? He was just a fast grower. It's not like it was unheard of in some kids. He helped me, at my demand, to tell the same lie to his mother when she came home from her trip, and I helped him stay scared shitless of the consequences if he ever told her or his teachers the truth. And no, I have no guilt over it, Doctor. As far as I'm concerned it was all in good clean fun anyways. They were just baby teeth after all. It's not like I had permanently disfigured him. Over the next four years his new teeth grew in with little problems and as tempting as the idea was to rip out a few more in the back that weren't visible to anyone else, I left them alone. I found other ways to amuse myself with Nathan like I always did. I won't write about every little thing in detail for you because it would literally fill over a thousand pages and I couldn't hope to remember every single thing I did to him anyways. Really the possibilities are endless when you have a mind so creative, daring, and indulgent as mine.

When Nathan turned 14, my so called abuse took a huge turn for a whole new level of intensity and passion. I always tried to hold back at least somewhat with him. To this day, I don't know why. I never considered what I was doing to him wrong. I only knew the law considered it wrong, but as long as Nathan remained too terrified of me to ever tell, that was of no concern to me. Maybe on some very basic instinctual level, deep within my subconscious, I actually did still maintain an animalistic paternal concern for my only son's welfare. I truly honestly don't know. All I'm really sure of is the one triggering event that blew whatever sense of caution I had previously exercised over myself with Nathan completely out of the water. I had come home early from work that day, several hours earlier than usual. My workload had been finished way ahead of schedule and as a reward, I was given the rest of the week off with pay to relax at home. It was 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. I expected Nathan to be home from school already, but he wasn't expecting me or his mother to come home for a while. And that's how I unwittingly came upon the situation that I did. I heard my son moaning upstairs, from his room. Moaning and panting. My first thought was it sounded like he was hurt. Had he fallen and hit his head or broken his leg? Was he lying on the ground halfway unconscious and unable to move? I ventured up the stairs, unsure of what I would find, and there I would get the shock of my life. I found his bedroom door open only by a crack, the same moaning sounds escaping from the room, and when I pushed the door open a little bit, I saw my son sitting on the edge of his bed naked, his bare back turned towards me. He was crouched over his own lap slightly and his head was thrown back. His body weight leaning on his left arm stretched behind his back, his right arm seemed to be in front of his lap and he was gyrating, thrusting as he moaned. Was he masturbating? Maybe. But he seemed to be carrying on a bit too loudly, too excitedly, for someone who was just jerking himself off alone in his room. And then I saw a tan slender hand, one that certainly didn't belong to my son, reach up from between his legs and wrap around his waist, grabbing a firm handful of his arse. Nathan's moaning grew louder, more spasmodic, his thrusts grew more dramatic, and then I realized I was standing there watching a girl go down on my son, his right hand clamping down on the back of her head.

At first I was floored just by the idea. Nathan was so introverted and sullen he had only managed to form and maintain friendships with just five other kids throughout his entire childhood. I didn't think he even spoke to any girls. And yet there he was, naked as a jaybird in his room after school when he thought nobody was home, with his thighs spread and a young lady's face locked between them. I watched with fascination as her other hand with its sparkly silver nail polish reached up and cupped the small of Nathan's back, rubbing gently. "Lie down, baby." I heard a young woman's voice whisper, and Nathan with a loud passionate sigh, obeyed. He slowly shifted to the right and crab walked up the mattress and rested his head on his pillow, and a beautiful girl with a perfect suntan and bleached reddish blonde hair crawled her way towards his open legs kissing slow trails up his inner thighs, and then buried her face in between them again. I watched her kiss the head of his dick passionately, then slowly lick him like an ice cream cone all the way up and down the length of his rock hard cock, base to tip, flicking and teasing the tiny slit on the head of his member with the tip of her tongue, before taking it in her mouth as she cupped his balls with one hand and his arse with the other. He moaned loudly, resting one of his hands on top of her head, and using his other arm to prop his own head up to get a good view of her lips and tongue on his cock.

What a lucky boy Nathan was, and for a brief moment I found myself beaming with pride over my son. The girl was knock out. Even though she was clothed, I could still tell she had an amazing figure, not too thin and not too thick. She was curved perfectly in all the right places, with large firm breasts, full pouting lips, and a big round arse filling out her daisy duke shorts. I almost found myself laughing aloud as I thought back to my sophomore year in high school when I got my first blowjob, and the beast I had received it from. She was a ghastly short fat thing bordering on obese, with horrible hair, a large pig-like upturned nose, and less than perfect hygiene. My friends and I spent more than half the year making fun of her and laughing behind her back, until the day we heard that she was one of the only girls in school who put out. By the time she got to me she had already sucked and fucked her way through most of the blokes in every level, but I didn't care. I wanted to be able to say I got my first blowjob and if I couldn't come to school the next day able to say that, then I felt like I might as well not show up at all. But good god, was she repulsive! I couldn't believe how low I had let myself sink back then. My very first blow job given to me by the schoolyard slag with hygiene issues. But as I stared at the girl all over my son, I could tell this was not the case with her. She was certainly older than Nathan by about 2 or 3 years, and she definitely knew how to use her mouth to please a man, and simply by observing her poise, technique, and confidence, I was sure there was no way in hell she could possibly be a virgin. But by the very same token I could also tell she had standards and didn't take just any guy to bed. How did my shy little Nathan, who wasn't even in high school yet, get so lucky at just 14 years old?

In all honesty, I shouldn't have been so surprised. Nathan may have been a painfully socially awkward kid, but he sure as hell looked a lot better than most of the boys I'd seen that were around his age at the time. While most of them were going through various stages of skin issues like greasiness and acne, these plagues of breakouts and blemishes had so far not touched my son. Not yet. I studied Nathan's naked body as he lay there writhing with pleasure beneath the tireless licking sucking mouth of this hot blonde babe. His white chest was still smooth and bare, his pubic hair was just barely beginning to grow in as a light dusting of thin black peach fuzz. I could see the same sort of fuzz peppering his one armpit that lay exposed as he kept his arm tucked behind his head. He had no facial hair growing in yet, and his features, while not quite childlike anymore, were still youthful and boyish. The hairs on his legs were still sparse, silky, and thin. His young body was lovely. Nathan had always been a skinny kid and still was, but his shoulders were just now beginning to broaden. A distinct slim waistline was beginning to develop. A slight round perkiness to his arse cheeks was just starting to form. The long lean muscles of his arms, legs, and belly were beginning to firm up and show through his pale translucent skin. He was just now entering puberty, I supposed. Not yet a man, but certainly not a little boy anymore either. He was absolutely gorgeous. What a stunner my Nathan was when he was a young teenager. It really was no wonder his first sexual experience would have to be with a girl up to the same standard as himself.

"Ohhhh! Ohhhh god, Cameron!..." Nathan suddenly cried out, his hips bucking faster, his hand twisting in her hair. She responded to his throaty gasps and moans by dragging one of her hands slowly from between his legs up his body and gently tweaking and teasing one of his light pink nipples when she reached it with her fingertips. He moaned louder, "Oohhhhh god! Please...wait...I..."

The girl, apparently named Cameron, lifted her head only for a few seconds and put a single finger from her other hand to her lips. "Shhhhh. Just relax, baby." she whispered, before returning her mouth to his throbbing pink cock.

"Ooooooooh! Cam, please! ...Stop! Stop! Oh no...oh god!..." Nathan shouted loudly, whining and shrieking desperately. He let go of her hair and grabbed and ripped at the blankets on his bed, like he was falling through the air and clinging on to anything he could for dear life. Cameron, of course, didn't stop. She gave his nipple one last little twist and then gripped his bucking hips with both hands, forcing them down on the mattress. Then she sucked him harder, faster, deeper, all the way to the back of her throat, pushing him violently over the edge and my son threw his head back and screamed.

"OOOOOOOHHHHHH FUUUUUCKKKK!" he howled. "OOOOOOOHHHH GOOOODDDDDDDD! UUUUGHHHH UUUUUGHHHHH UUUUUUUUUGHHHHHHH...!"

Nathan's back arched as he came hard, and loud, in Cameron's mouth, spilling his cream on her rasping slurping tongue. His lithe body writhed and twisted as he screamed furiously in his ecstasy, screams rivalling even his loudest cries of pain that I elicited from him through my most agonizing forms of torture I had so far inflicted. I watched with cold silent fascination as my son drowned in an ocean of pleasure, wave after orgasmic wave crashing through him made evident with every shriek, every howl, until finally he was completely spent. He lay flat on the bed exhausted, bringing a single hand to his face as he gripped at his own hairline, his chest heaving as he gasped for air, obviously wrecked and drained by that wicked intense orgasm. Every breath he took sobbed loudly in and out. And then his crotch began to flinch reflexively away from her lips while he clenched his teeth, sucking air through them and squealing.

"Oh god, Cam! ...Oww! ...Stop! Please! ...No more!" he cried and pleaded with the girl, her lips and tongue still busy around his cock. She chuckled softly before giving the head of his captive dick one final little suck, and he gasped fiercely and tried to pull his hips away from her mouth as he grimaced with a mixture of pleasure and pain, that indescribable feeling of being stimulated past orgasm. Then she kissed her way slowly up his sweating trembling body until she reached his lips and crushed them with hers, shoving her tongue deep into his mouth.

"Mmmmmmmmm, you taste good, don't cha?" she cooed at him. Nathan just continued to gasp and heave. "I don't know..." he answered breathlessly. "I can't tell... I can't even think!... oh my fucking god!..."

"Well you do!" she insisted. "I couldn't get enough of you. I had to swallow all your juices, I had to get every last drop."

He moaned with satisfaction and a bit of new arousal when he heard her say this, and she kissed him madly.

"I...I don't even...what the fuck did you do to me? What the fuck was that?" my son asked, staring into her eyes intently, looking completely bewildered.

"Uh...are you serious?" she asked, seeming just as dumbfounded by his question. I didn't blame her. In fact, I was too.

"Yeah," Nathan sighed. "It scared me! I... seriously, that's never happened to me before! That fucking...it felt like a bomb went off inside my crotch and then spread all over my body! Like shrapnel kinda...but fucking awesome shrapnel that tickles a lot instead of hurts! And...what the fuck? Did you make me piss in your mouth or something? I swear I didn't mean to! But you just wouldn't stop!"

My jaw dropped and I almost fell to the floor laughing. The way my son described things sometimes, I fucking swear! I could also see that our fine school system in the conservative deep south of Florida was doing a great job teaching our kids basic sex education. Cameron just smacked him playfully on his heaving chest and shouted "No, you idiot! I didn't make you pee! I made you orgasm! Ha ha! What the fuck, you've never had an orgasm before?!"

Nathan just shook his head "No." he said. "I told you, I'm a total virgin! I've never done _anything_ before!"

Cameron looked stunned. "Not even jerked off? You must at least masturbate! I thought all guys did."

Nathan nodded slowly. "Yeah, sometimes. But I never made myself do _that_! I mean, is that even possible? To do that, like, to myself?"

"Yes, retard!" The girl laughed. "That's the whole point!"

"Hmmm." Nathan shrugged. "I guess maybe I just never did it good enough. Or for long enough... I don't know."

"Why, Nathan?" she asked more seriously. A sombre look came over Nathan's face and he shifted his head slightly to the side, away from her gaze.

"I don't know." he answered quietly. "I guess I get kind of sick when I touch myself. I don't really like myself much, so, um yeah. When it starts to feel good...down there, I start feeling like I'm gonna throw up kinda... And then I have to stop."

Cameron had a sad look on her face now. She reached down my son's pale body and fingered one of the several raised burn scars I had given him on his belly.

"Nathan," she asked. "Does your dad ever, you know, hurt you, like, in other ways? I mean, I know he gets really violent, but I was just wondering if he's ever, you know... touched you. Like in a sexual way. Or tried to. I'm sorry, you don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Nathan just shook his head. "No." he said. "I don't think so, anyways. I mean, he's done a lot of stuff to me. But I don't remember anything like that. I mean, I probably would remember if he did, right?"

"Probably." Cameron answered. "But, if you don't even like to give yourself pleasure...I just don't see..."

"No," Nathan cut her short. "I really don't think that's why. I guess... maybe its because I feel like I...uh don't deserve to feel anything good? Like, he tells me I should hate myself and I only deserve pain and that's why he has to do what he does. And I believe him."

"That's not true, Nathan!" Cameron said firmly. "You shouldn't believe that shit!"

"Well, I have to." Nathan said. "He's my dad." Tears began to fall down his cheeks now and land on the pillow beneath his head. How tempting he looked at that very moment, so vulnerable, just ready to be pounced on. It took all my strength to hold back the urge to burst through the door and beat my gorgeous son to a pulp right then and there. But somehow I managed to control myself. I knew that as good as this moment was, I still had to wait. It was a great time, just not quite the right time. I remained still and continued to watch them in silence.

Cameron lowered her head to his jaw line just above his throat and licked the tears away. She kissed Nathan on his neck softly and slowly dragged her tongue across his collarbone, then down the middle of his chest. He sighed, closed his eyes and lifted his chin to accept her healing touch. It was more than obvious that this girl genuinely cared about my son. And he seemed to care about her too. It would be enough to bring tears to almost anyone else's eyes, this sweet and sentimental scene. It could melt some of the coldest of hearts. But not mine.

"Nathan," she whispered. "Did you feel that way when I went down on you? Did you feel sick?"

Nathan turned his face towards hers again and looked into her eyes. "No." he said. "Definitely _not_ when you went down on me! I don't know why. Maybe it just felt too good for me to be sick. But with you, I didn't want it to stop. Except when I started getting all scared. But it was so worth it, going through the scary part to finish that orgasm...thing. It was awesome. I loved it with you."

Cameron smiled. "I want to help you, Nathan." she said sweetly into his ear. "I never want you to feel hurt or sick when you touch yourself again. That's not ok, baby. It's your body. You have every right to make yourself feel pleasure without any guilt."

Nathan lay there quietly for a few seconds. When he finally replied, his voice broke, stifled sobs threatening to escape his lungs. "I could never do it without you anyways."

Cameron wiped tears away from his face. "I'd rather you did do it with me, babe." she said. "But when I'm not here, you should still have some way to make yourself feel good. How about jerking yourself off tonight while thinking of me? Just imagine your hands are my hands, and my mouth. When you start to feel sick, just concentrate on me, on what I did to you today, and don't stop. Eventually you'll get over the bad feelings and you can keep going until you make yourself come. Just imagine I'm here touching you instead. Touching you any way you want..." she slid her hand slowly from his stomach to his crotch. He shuddered. I saw her hand disappear briefly between his thighs, then reappear as his cock grew hard again and bobbed up in her stroking palm. He gripped her shoulders, moaning softly and biting his lip.

"There, see?" she whispered seductively to him. "Doesn't my hand feel a lot like yours?"

Nathan sighed with pleasure. "A little bit." he murmured. "But yours feels way better."

Cameron chuckled quietly, and in one deft motion she lifted herself up halfway from the bed and whipped her shirt off, revealing a perfect pair of big round tits being pushed up and firmly held in place by a black lace bra. The cups of her bra were slightly askew by all the previous movement from the head she had given my son just moments before, causing one of her nipples to peak out from the garment. "Just watch me, Nathan. Feel me. Pay attention to how I'm touching you and remember it. Then you can try imitating it tonight, ok?"

Nathan nodded. "Ok." he whispered in between moans. "I'll try."

I watched the girl expertly stroke my sons cock, not wanting to miss a single second, lest I give up the perfect time to step in and shatter this beautiful moment for him. Several minutes later Nathan was beginning to completely lose himself again, arching his back, closing his eyes, parting his lips and expressing his pleasure with steadily growing louder and more heartfelt vocalizations.

"Ohhhh Cam! Yes! Uunnff! Oohhhhh god...!" he exclaimed passionately and began to push down on the top of her head with his hand. Once again, I had to hold in my laughter. Nathan really was becoming a man after all.

Cameron laughed too. "Nathan, don't push my head down!" she instructed firmly. "I'm trying to teach you how to use your hands like mine right now!"

Nathan whined. "Please, Cam?" he begged. "It feels so fucking good in your mouth!..." his breathing grew faster, more desperate, more intense. I swear I could actually hear his heart pounding with lust inside his chest from all the way over where I was standing.

"I can do that again later, babe." she replied. "Your parents won't be home until 7 tonight. We have plenty of time."

Nathan nodded ok and relaxed again, opening himself up completely to the pleasure she was giving him. This time there was no apprehension in his voice or his body language, no fear, only bliss. He threw his head back and purred "Ahhhhh Cam! That feels soooooooooo good! Don't stop!"

Cameron smiled and then lowered her head to his chest to flick and tickle one of his nipples with her tongue tip. Nathan gasped, then giggled and gripped her hair, his nipple grew hard beneath her tongue. With a chuckle, she gave it a few quick pecking kisses before wrapping her lips all the way around it and sucking it up into her mouth, causing Nathan to groan louder and writhe beneath her. "Ooooohhhh! Ooooohh Cameron!" he cried loudly. "I think I'm...uhhn I'm gonna...!"

"You're gonna come." she finished for him. "It's ok. Just let yourself go, baby." She stroked him harder and faster and he started to scream.

"OOOHHH YES! OOOHHHH GOD! DON'T STOP DON'T STOP! UUNF UUUNNNFF..." he shrieked, clenching his teeth with every harsh laboured breath. And that was my moment. The perfect one I had been waiting for. To ruin my son's orgasm, to deny him his release, his one happiness. Planting my foot on the outer rim of his door, I kicked it in with as much theatrical force as I could muster and burst on through. Startled, Nathan and his female friend both shrieked with fear and the girl jumped off the bed. Nathan, however, didn't have time to retreat. Grabbing him by his slightly tussled black hair, I lifted and yanked him up into the air, and he screeched in pain. Cameron's eyes grew wide and she cried out too.

"No!" she shouted. "Don't hurt him! This was all my idea! I swear! It wasn't his fault! Please!"

Dragging my son by his hair behind me, I sauntered over her and glared down into her big beautiful terrified hazel eyes. "What is your name, girl?! Give me your full name!" I demanded.

"C-Cameron... Cameron Cornell..." she stammered.

"Cameron Cornell! How old are you, skank?!" I spat at her face.

"Fi...fift..."

"And don't try to lie, you little whore! I'll find out if you're lying, and you'll be sorry!"

"Sixteen!" she sobbed pitifully. "I'm sixteen!"

"Sixteen huh?" I loomed over her, and she whimpered, cornered between the wall and me. I yanked Nathan up all the way off the ground by his hair, his toes dangling beneath him. She screamed in horror and he screamed right along with her. "Nathan's 14 years old, slag! He's not even in high school yet! Did you fuck him? Huh? Are you fucking my son?"

"Dad, no!" Nathan shouted, straining through the pain of being lifted by his hair. "This is all we've..."

"Nathan, shut the fuck up!" I yelled and punched him in the eye. They both screamed. "I wasn't asking you, you piece of shit! I'm talking to your little skank whore girlfriend right here! Answer me, bitch! Are you fucking my son?!"

"Noo!" she sobbed. "No, I swear! I never touched him, he's still a virgin! He told me himself!"

"Oh, you definitely touched him, you lying trash! You more than touched him, I saw that! You better tell me everything the two of you did right now!"

"No, I didn't mean...we just fooled around, ok! This was our very first time! All I did was use my mouth on him! I went down on him, and I gave him a hand job, that's it! I promise! Oh god, please don't hurt us!" she pleaded and shook with fear. I couldn't tell who was shaking worse, her or Nathan.

"Oh, you promise, cunt?" I scoffed. "Well I'm gonna find out the truth from Nathan, and you better hope to god he doesn't come up with a different story! Because if I find out you're lying, I'll make you wish you had your hands and tongue chewed off by starving ally rats before you ever used them on my son! Understand?!"

"Yes sir!" she sobbed.

"Good!" I picked her little red shirt from Nathan's bed sheets and threw it at her face. "Now, get the fuck OUT! GET OUT! And when _you're_ alone in _your_ bed tonight, think about all the suffering your little boy toy is going to go through because of you!"

She squeaked and ran for the door as fast as her legs could take her, and as I watched her cry and scamper down the street in a panic from Nathan's bedroom window, I laughed to myself. Everything had gone perfectly. She was scared shitless, and I knew she would never be back, never dare even speak to my son or go near him again. Any future, any happiness he could have had with that beautiful kind-hearted girl was forever ruined because of me. And I still wasn't near finished with him yet.

Staring venom into his petrified eyes, I reared back with his hair still in my hand and flung him downward, sending him crashing to the hardwood floor. The fall alone was enough to give him several wicked scrapes and bruises, but before he even had time to react, I wrapped my hand around his throat and lifted him back up by his neck. He gagged, choked, and kicked as his hands clawed desperately at mine. For a few seconds, I took him in, simply enjoying the sight of him hanging from his neck in front of me, gasping and struggling for breath, before throwing his naked body back down to the bed. He landed hard on his back and I followed after him, leaning down right on top of him, not wasting any time. I grabbed his wrists and forced them over his head with one hand while using my knee to pin his lower body down by his crotch. He cried out in agony and then his eyes grew wide with terror as I used my other hand to remove my belt.

"No wait! Don't whip me!" he cried, trying to struggle free. "I'm sorry! I learned my lesson!"

"Whip you?" I laughed. "Oh no no no, child! I have much bigger plans for you!" Sneering down at him, I wrapped one end of my belt around his wrists several times and attached the other end to the headboard, effectively tying him securely to the bed.

"Oh no! No! What is this?" he wept, pulling and yanking at his bonds in a state of panic, but to no avail. He was trapped, and would remain there until I was ready to untie him, and with his mother not due to come home for at least another 2 1/2 hours, it would be a good long while before I was forced to set him free.

I chuckled to myself and looked down at my trembling teenage boy disdainfully. "You better thank god for your mum." I scoffed at him. "If it weren't for her, I would never let you go." Then I got up and left for the kitchen and my tool shed. Tears trickled down his face as his eyes followed me out the door, locked on me in a terrified gaze. When I returned a few minutes later with a variety of instruments and tools, my son became frantic with fear. Gripping his struggling ankles one at a time, I tied them each to a separate bedpost with some garden twine, rending him spread eagled and helpless. And then I lit a cigarette. Nathan instantly went rigid with dread, his eyes trained on the glowing tip. He knew exactly what was coming, I must have burned that poor child a hundred times by then. Looking him up and down with cold calculation, I pondered where to put the cigarette out first, before deciding on an old favourite, one of the most sensitive parts of his body, tried and tested many times before. Slowly I began to lower the burning ember to the hollow of his left armpit, then paused to hover it just an inch above the spot, simply to draw out his fear. Nathan began to cringe and hyperventilate.

"NO NO WAIT!..." he sobbed. Too late. I touched the red-hot glowing tip to the tender flesh and pressed it deep into his skin until it went out. He screamed so loud I had to cover his mouth with my free hand so the neighbours wouldn't hear. I relit the cigarette and put out another ember right above the same spot. The wretched howls that came from my son's mouth were enough to send my senses reeling. His pain was delicious, and at last having him tied up and restrained like a proper torture victim set me off on a new path in my brain. I couldn't remember the last time I had ever felt so alive, so ecstatically happy, not even when I pulled his teeth out several years ago. I sat there staring down at my son as he screeched in agony and wondered why I'd waited so long to do this. I had always wanted to, but for some reason I held back. Why had I held back for so long?

I must have lit and relit at least 20 cigarettes that day, putting them out all over his naked helpless body while he thrashed and wailed. By the time I got to my last cigarette, he had already screamed himself hoarse and bit down on his own tongue in agony. Tiny droplets of blood slowly trickled from his mouth. I stood over my boy with that last cigarette in hand and waited for his latest fit of screams to subside and old pain to ebb away just enough for him to appreciate the new. I was about to do something I had never done before, and I wanted his full attention for this. Nathan's legs were already tied apart, he couldn't move much more than 1 or 2 inches in any given direction, I had tied him so tight. But even 1 or 2 inches was too much for what I had planned. I climbed on top of him and used my knees to pin his open thighs down. I needed him absolutely still for this. I brought my hand to his crotch and lifted his cock, much to my poor son's dismay. Nathan stared up at me with a tantalizing mixture of anguish, confusion and terror when my hand touched his genitals. I savoured that precious look on his face for a few seconds, and then slowly lowered my cigarette. Nathan screamed with horror before the flame even touched his right testicle, but when it did, my god, you've never heard such stomach churning, animalistic lamentations of agony in your whole life! I relit the cigarette and burned him several more times on his balls, up and down the length of his perineum, and all around the base of his cock. The sheer volume of Nathan's primal guttural howls could have broken the glass of his bedroom windows had I not remembered to smother his mouth with my free hand. The last horrible burn to his genitals was instantly followed by a stream of light amber coloured urine that splashed my hand and sizzled against the lit end of the smoke before putting it out. He bawled and shrieked like a banshee while I laughed inside. His little girlfriend didn't make him piss, but I sure did. Chuckling, I tossed the wet cigarette across the room and wiped my piss soaked hand all over his face. He whipped his head reflexively to the side and sobbed his misery. Looking down to admire my handy work, I noticed his cock was still semi-hard. I couldn't even believe that was possible. I'm sure he couldn't either.

"Hmmm, still thinking about your little whore, huh?" I sneered. "Good! Think about her every chance you get. You know you'll never see her again." Nathan looked like he'd just had his heart ripped out when I said this. So, he really did love her. The look on his tear-streaked face was priceless. It would only make what I was about to do next so much better, so much more poignant. Reaching for my tools, I picked up a pair of pliers and dangled them tauntingly in front of his face. What little colour Nathan had to his skin instantly drained away and he lay wide-eyed with terror, those bright green gems as big and round as saucers. Ever since I tore Nathan's teeth out when he was 8 years old, he remained terrified of those pliers. The trauma Nathan had experienced that bloody night at my hands had gone on to cause all kinds of problems. He was deathly afraid of the dentist, for one. Way more so than most normal kids. For years he was so bad he had to be sedated before his mother could even carry him to the car for his appointments. The fact that the dentist never pulled teeth without painkillers didn't seem to matter to my son. He just couldn't stand the idea of someone fucking around with his mouth. But he would soon find out it wasn't his teeth I was going for this time. Reaching up, I grabbed one of his hands and held fast to his fingers, keeping them trapped and still in my grip. Immediately Nathan began to whine and keen desperately, the impending realization just now beginning to register in his brain.

"Oh no..." he sobbed bitterly. "No no no..."

"That's right, Nathan." I replied. "Picture her as vividly as you can in your mind. You're gonna need something to tide you over. You won't be using these hands to jerk off for a long time."

I gripped the nail of his index finger with the pliers, and he grimaced, turned his head away, and squeezed his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to brace himself for the inevitable agony, but nothing could prepare him for this. Slowly, I began to pull the nail back and peel it away from his flesh until it ripped free from his cuticle with a soft wet popping sound. He howled and thrashed. Blood dripped from his raw nail bed and trickled in long red tendrils down his arm. I waited a few minutes before ripping out another nail, then another, then another. Then finally, after tearing and peeling away all ten nails from his fingertips, I took the pliers to his toes. By the time I had torn the very last toenail free, he was a shrieking bawling sweating mess, twisting and writhing frantically in his bonds, absolutely beside himself with pain. He had never experienced nail torture to that extreme before. I had stuck needles underneath his fingernails and toenails a few times, I had even bashed them with a hammer once, but never had I completely ripped them out until then. His hoarse voice screamed into the air "STOP! STOP IT! NO MORE! NO MORE PLEASE!" as he shook with sobs.

"Oh, we're just beginning, Nathan!" I taunted, and wrapped the pliers around the top joint of his bloody left pinkie finger, before twisting it violently and breaking the bones with a wet sickening crunch. His screams were so delicious, it killed me to have to smother most of them. I waited patiently for him to recover slightly, lest he go into shock, before breaking the pinkie on his trembling right hand. Another scream followed, and then he passed out cold on the bed in a pool of his own sweat, tears, and blood. His sheets were soaked all the way through with his fluids.

I checked my watch. It was only 5:30. We still had a good hour and a half left before his mother came home. I gave him about 10 minutes more to rest before bringing him back around with a hard slap to the face. He cried out and woke with a start.

"Wakey wakey, Nathan." I said, stroking his pretty chin with the back of my hand. His face immediately contorted and he sobbed with grief, realizing that the torture was going to continue. I sat on his belly with my knees pressed hard into both of his armpits, and held out an exacto knife for him to see. A used one. Sharp, but not too sharp. His sobs grew louder and faster. I could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he lay frozen in a state of panic. I had never cut him with a blade before, but after today it would become somewhat of a regular occurrence, and I wanted to make the very first impression a lasting one. Laying a hand on his chest, I used two fingers to stretch the flesh of his nipple in two opposite directions before bringing the sharp point of the blade to the tiny raised round tip of flesh right in the centre of that sensitive little pink bud. Weeping, Nathan pleaded with me desperately, helplessly, hopelessly.

"Oh no, no please!..." he cried. I just smiled and then sunk the blade into the soft yielding skin. With slow sawing motions back and forth, I sliced his nipple in half. He howled. As usual, I waited just long enough for the previous pain to subside somewhat before slicing through his other nipple in the exact same fashion. Screeching and frantic with agony unlike anything he'd ever felt before, Nathan heaved and gasped and choked on his own sobs. I was in heaven. I moved down and repositioned myself over his thighs, dangling the blade teasingly above his crotch. When Nathan began to get at least some of his strength back, he instantly started trying to kick and twist his legs out from under me, a sad and futile attempt, and when I wrapped my hand around his dick, his hoarse voice broke and deteriorated into barely coherent pleading desperate wails.

"Nooo, dad! Stop!" he bawled. "Not there! Please don't cut me...I swear we weren't going to have sex! We really weren't! I didn't think we were doing anything wrong! Please no!..."

"I know you didn't, Nathan." I responded coldly. "That's why you need to be taught a lesson." I sunk the point of the blade into the slit of his urethra. The screams that rang out from his snow white throat were so loud and yet so delectable and beautiful, I didn't cover his mouth that time. I just couldn't bring myself to do it, even though I knew it was a risk. I let those sweet deafening notes pierce through the air fierce and free. They grew even louder and sweeter as I sawed and sliced slowly through the head of his cock until it lay open and raw before me, cut cleanly through the slit and right down the middle. Nathan wasn't circumcised so I can only imagine how much a slice to the head of his uncut penis must have hurt, let alone a full bisection of his poor glans. I had to fight with myself to keep from slicing my way down the entire length of his dick and cleaving the whole thing in two halves. How I desperately wanted to do so, but I had to be careful not to cause enough damage so that he would bleed to death or need to be hospitalized. The ear splitting exclamations of excruciating pain that came from my poor son now were beginning to sound more animal than human. And I still wasn't finished yet.

"You know, Nathan. I could kill you right now." I taunted while staring down into his face, savouring that beautiful look of fear. "You're lucky if I don't. You were sure asking for it, telling that little slut all about the things I did to you. Yeah, that's right, I heard you guys talking. What if she goes to the cops, Nathan? Then where would you be? Ever thought of that? I'll tell you where right now, you'd be cut up in several pieces and laying down at the bottom of the swamp waiting for the fish and alligators to pick the flesh off your bones when I got through with you. That was a stupid stupid move, boy."

"I wasn't going to tell her!" Nathan sobbed. "It just came out! She told me she cared about me and wanted to make me happy! Please, no!"

"I'm not going to kill you, dumbshit!" I spat. "Not this time. But you're on thin ice, kiddo. You really have no right to beg me not to do anything."

Taking two kabob skewers retrieved from the kitchen, I stabbed and drilled the sharp points into both his testicles and pierced them all the way through until the points emerged out the other side. He bellowed and his body convulsed, then he whipped his head to the side and vomited. I had never seen anyone in so much pain before. Reaching underneath his hips, I cupped his buttocks and lifted them up off the bed, spreading them open as wide as I could. Deftly, I forced two fingers up his arse, then with some difficulty, inserted a third. He wailed, and his cries grew louder as I spread my fingers apart as far as they would go inside him, stretching and stretching him out until I felt the cringing flesh of the entrance to his tight orifice finally give way and tear open. He screamed and a river of rich dark red blood spilled out from his ripped arsehole, pooling into the palm of my hand. I sat atop him silently now, just gazing at the sight of him, drenched in sweat, bawling loudly, bleeding, choking, and writhing in unrelenting agony. No I didn't hate my son, how could I possibly? He was so perfect, the gift I had been praying for since the day I realized my darkest desires, he was so so beautiful. Time stopped and the rest of the world ceased to exist in this moment. He meant that much to me.

As Nathan's latest pain induced tantrum at last began to fade into those sweet defeated sobs I loved so dearly, I lifted my final instrument of torture and presented it to him: a long thin round wire filter brush made of flexible industrial grade copper. Each individual wire bristle surrounding it was as sharp and stiff as a barb, yet the full width of the brush was only about 5-6 millimetres. Thin enough to fit through even the tiniest little opening, and long enough to reach all the way up to wherever it needed to be. My fingers tingled with excitement, I couldn't wait to try it out. Nathan, however, did not seem to share my enthusiasm.

"Now Nathan," I began. "This should keep you out of trouble with the ladies. Even if you do meet another slut, it shouldn't be a problem, because you wont be able to use your dick to cum for a long time. In fact, you'll barely even be able to use it to piss after this."

"Nooooo dad! Please!..." he cried desperately. "Don't do this!..."

"It's the only way you're gonna learn, Nathan." I said matter of factly. "If you didn't want this, you should have thought of that before you shoved your dick down that little harlot's throat. But now it's too late, and your new friendly teacher's aide here is going to have to take a long trip right up your piss-hole. Now don't you feel bad about causing all this trouble for everybody?"

"Oh god, no no please..." Nathan was shaking so bad I could hear the legs of his bed clattering against the wood floor.

"Deep breaths, Nathan." I replied coolly, and then spread the two bloody halves of his cut up dickhead open. Nathan shrieked in pain from this alone, but the worst was yet to come. Using a section of cloth from his bed sheets, I swabbed and cleaned the blood away from the inside of his wretched wound until I could see the tiny hole of his urethra, then I positioned the tip of the wire brush. Nathan, still crying from the pain of the wound being spread and wiped, sat gasping and staring unblinking with horror as I waited, drawing out his fear. Then I slowly slid the brush in, eliciting his hardest, loudest scream of the day. A scream so hard, it first came out silent, the strength of his vocal cords and his larynx unable to accommodate the force of a scream so violent, so powerful. He hadn't given me a silent scream like that since he was 4 years old and his voice box was still not fully developed. The scream that followed afterwards exploded from his lungs with such fury and at such a deafening volume, I was sure everybody in the neighbourhood could have heard it. I'm amazed nobody had the cops sent to our house that day. Fresh blood dripped slowly from his dick again as the brush lay inside him. I had pushed it in all the way up to the handle. Every tiny knife-like bristle sat imbedded in the flesh of his poor cock and had even snaked a couple inches up into his bladder. He yanked frantically at his bonds and screamed for a good 15 minutes before finally calming down. And then I slowly pulled the brush back out, twisting it around and around with every inch, ripping up the flesh inside him even more. He howled like an injured wildcat as the wire brush was slowly extracted from his mangled urethra, and when I pulled it all the way out, blood gushed and poured like a garden hose from his dick. Nathan screeched and wailed louder than I had ever heard him do before. How heartbreakingly gorgeous he was. His beauty attained divinity, pure perfection, when he was in pain. If the rest of the world fell in love with pain as I did, they would be clamouring to my house in a fervent attempt to use him too. He would inspire the most beautiful sonnets ever written, putting Shakespeare's work to shame. He would be the world's sole muse for all the poetry, music, and art that would ever be created in our time. I don't think I am the one with the problem. Maybe _you_ and the rest of the world are the ones with the problem. You can't see the same beauty in pain that I can, or you simply won't allow yourself to see it. As I reflect on this misfortune of yours, I actually feel a bit sorry for you. You truly will never know what you are missing. If you could only see what I see when I stare into my beautiful son's face contorted with unbearable suffering, if you could only hear the music in his screams of agony, observe the flowing grace of his sweet body when he thrashes in anguish, you would understand why I have to do what I do. My beautiful muse, my sweet Nathan, clutched furiously at his bonds, white knuckled from pain, shivering and shaking, tears pouring from his eyes like a water fountain. Then, once again, he fainted and lay stone cold in his own sweat and blood. What a sweet and perfect finish to such a grand event.

Though the worst of his ordeal was over, the "cool-down" period would definitely still not be pleasant. Nathan awoke only to have several searing capfuls of rubbing alcohol poured into every open wound on his body, and a sewing needle with white thread stabbing repeatedly through his sliced nipples and the head of his cock as I stitched them up myself. He tried to scream with his worn out vocal cords, but most of his cries only came out in ragged strained wheezes and gasps. His poor overwrought voice was now completely gone. I laundered his bloody sheets, splinted his broken pinkies myself, hid his raw nailbeds behind bandages, and told his mother he had been injured in "another fight" with some random neighbourhood thugs. The next day I sent myself to the doctor complaining of a false ailment in order to obtain a ten day prescription of antibiotics that I could give to my son without anybody ever seeing him or knowing he was hurt. His torn up urethra would almost certainly have given way to a brutal and possibly even fatal UTI if I tried letting it heal up on its own. I force fed him the pills everyday and he escaped infection while I escaped exposure, but the entire healing period still caused him unspeakable suffering and would last over six long months before it was finally over with. What a lesson, the gift that kept on giving. Or as I explained it to Nathan, what happens to bad boys when they go sticking their dicks where they don't belong.

Poor little Nathan, if only he really knew, not that I could ever tell him of course. It wasn't about punishment. I couldn't have cared less if Nathan had lost his virginity that day or even months before. The illusion of punishment was only a farce. It was all about pleasure. My pleasure that I derived from his pain. And it was growing stronger. My son's agony shared a symbiotic and beautiful relationship with my personal satisfaction, and that dynamic took a violent and irreversible turn the day I finally allowed for myself to share that real raw intimacy with him. To hurt him in places, and in ways, I hadn't ever dared before. It's because of this that you and the stupid D.A. of Florida tried to twist what I shared with my son into a "sex abuse" case and you suggested that my compulsions have a repressed sexual component to them! Simply because I had to touch his private parts to inflict the amounts of pain that I wanted to! As though you actually believe I could possibly be sexually attracted to my own child! Bullshit! You know nothing! How dare you cheapen what I had with Nathan to be something as typical and meaningless as sexual attraction or even romance! These are stupid feelings any wanker can have for anyone else! They don't even begin to scratch the surface of what I had for Nathan! There was nothing I felt whatsoever that even resembled sexual arousal when I was torturing my son! My dick never got hard, I never felt the desire to kiss him or suck him off as I ripped into his flesh to draw blood. No sexual experience I've ever had in my life can even come close to comparing with the level of satisfaction I felt when I hit a nerve on his body in just the right spot, in just the right way, and he gave me one of those violent heart wrenching screams I woke up for every day! I certainly climaxed, lord knows how hard I climaxed the day I properly sliced Nathan up for the first time, but it's not an orgasm of the body! It's an orgasm of the _brain_. It's all mental, the highest peak of satisfaction in my mind. I had no desire to suck or fuck my son, but I lived and breathed to explore his body. Fuck yes, I did. Explore the levels and thresholds of suffering I could possibly inflict on every single part of it before the pain came just short of killing him. I don't just want his pain, I _need_ his pain. I need it more than I need anything else in the world. If I could have pushed my Nathan past his limit and then brought him back to life, good god, I would have tortured him to death over a thousand times by now! Name one other patient you've ever had who needed sex that bad, Einstein! I guarantee you can't. I guarantee you never will.

Through it all, Nathan never tried to report me to the police. He was far too afraid of me and what I would do to him if he ever even dared entertain the idea. I made sure of that. Over the years, I would become more and more graphic and detailed when I told him about all the ways I would torture him to death if he ever crossed me. I went through everything from burning the flesh off his bones with a blowtorch, mutilating his genitals and nipples with sharp objects, fire, electric shocks, whatever I could get ahold of that would hurt the shit out of him, penetrating his arsehole with knives, breaking his bones with hammers, mallets, rocks, my bare hands, and slowly skinning, defleshing, and cutting off all his body parts in all kinds of different ways until he was finally dead, unable to withstand the pain any longer. Nathan would sit there in dead silence sweating and shaking with fear as I told him these were all things I was just dying to try anyways, all he had to do was give me a good enough reason. He believed every word I said, of course. Every scar, old mark, and new wound on his body served as a sobering testament to how far I was willing to take my fixation, and how much I truly enjoyed my work. I once read in Nathan's private journal he kept, mostly filled with macabre poetry and dark bloody musings towards himself or fictional characters that resembled him, that he was actually surprised I hadn't already tortured him to death yet, and all I could do was smile. He remained steadfastly terrified of me and unfalteringly loyal. He truly was a good boy. My undoing came when Nathan was 16 and I finally took my experimentation with him just a little step too far.

Nathan began to grow up a lot after his 16th birthday. He was well on his way to becoming fairly tall, not as tall as me, but he was noticeably shooting up fast, already standing at 5'9 and a half and still growing. He was fit and toned, but not overly muscular yet. He was still long, lean and slim, but his skeleton was broad, the muscles he had were all rock hard, and his beautiful face had begun to take on more angular features and definition. He was still gorgeous, but slowly becoming less boyish and more chiselled, more handsome, more like a man. Unlike in prep school and junior high, he had trouble getting people to leave him alone in high school. His good looks and dark mysterious nature had coupled together nicely to give him something of a Hollywood movie style bad boy reputation amongst his peers, something he didn't like or know how to handle. He still wanted to be left alone, but he was, at the time, too polite to tell people to just fuck off. All the jocks and the coaches wanted him on their team, telling him he'd make a great line backer or quarterback. His long legs, arms, and ever increasing height were all coveted by the basketball, football, and soccer coaches. Girls from every social circle and clique were drawn to him, wanting to tame his assumed wild side or cure him of his deep emotional hurt and sadness that was made obvious to everyone by his face, despite his efforts to hide it. To all of them, he would never say yes or no, just "I'll think about it." He was too scared to do anything, even just talk to girls because of what had happened to him over Cameron. Nathan struggled quite a bit with all the unwanted attention, not knowing how to deal with it every single day, and it was great fun watching him go crazy.

Nathan only seemed to come out of his cold black shell when prodded by his ever incessantly nagging mother. It was because of her that he finished drivers training and got his license. He didn't want to at first, not because he didn't want to drive or anything, but because the drivers training programme at his high school was a very socially interactive class in which he would be forced to talk to everyone and do a lot of group work. But finally, after listening to Rose's constant bitching, he gave in. He seemed grateful for her efforts later, however. After he got his license, he started leaving the house a lot. Usually not for any reason in particular, he just wanted to get away from everything and everyone, away from me most of all. I followed him undetected to his getaway spots a few times, just out of curiosity. He liked to drive out to where it was quiet, like a summit or a park, occasionally with a close friend, but usually he preferred to be alone. He would go there mostly to write, listen to music, or just relax. One of his favourite spots in the evening was the beach. He'd sit there by himself and watch the sun set over the ocean and the moon rise while he wrote in his journal. The last day I followed him to the beach, I was able to spy on him at a close distance hiding behind a newspaper, a hat, and some sunglasses. He was confronted by a dark bronze skinned tropical looking beauty wearing a bikini top and a scarf around her waist. I pegged her as Hawaiian when I first saw her, but then she opened her mouth and asked my son if he was lonely in a thick Hispanic accent, obviously struggling with her words. At first he tried to politely but hastily blow her off, like he always did, but eventually he invited her to sit down with him, conceding to her that maybe he could use some company after all. Apparently my son wasn't as stupid as I enjoyed telling him he was. He seemed to be put at ease around her very quickly. Due to the language barrier, she didn't talk much, just like him, which he enjoyed. They shared a few drinks together, some beers he had snuck out of the house, and she watched him write while he slowly opened up to her about his poetry and songs. When he began to get a little bit emotional about the meaning behind them, she responded by wrapping her arms around him and cradling his head. They watched the sun set and the moon rise, holding hands and cuddling up together. Then she gave him her phone number and told him she had to go back home before she got in trouble with her parents. "Yeah, me too." he sighed. They shared a quick kiss and she ran off, eventually disappearing behind a sand dune. He watched her leave with a hint of sadness on his face, seeming unhappy to see her go, but he picked himself up and left too. He discarded the empty beer cans on his way back to the car, threw the remaining drinks in the trunk, and drove off, never knowing that I was there. I waited until he was out of sight, then got on the road myself. I decided to take a short cut on the way back home, no longer having to follow him. I needed to talk to him about something important now, and I wanted to make sure I got back in before he did.

I returned home a good 15 minutes before Nathan walked through the door. When he did, I was there sitting in my recliner with my arms folded and the sternest look on my face I could give him. He froze dead in his tracks. He knew that look all too well.

"Nathan!" I stood up. I enjoyed being taller than him if nothing else for the effect. "I'm missing a few beers! They're not in my den cooler, and they're not in the garage. Now I know I didn't drink them, and your mother doesn't even like that brand of beer, so that only leaves you!" I walked towards him and loomed over his face. "What did you do with them?"

Nathan looked up at me with a stunned expression on his face, unable to believe I could possibly notice or care about one six pack of beer gone missing out of the more than forty I always kept in the house. And in reality, I didn't care that much and I never would have noticed if I hadn't followed him out to the beach that night and watched him. But he wasn't going to find out about that.

He turned his eyes away from mine. "Nothing, it wasn't me."

I grabbed his shirt, he gasped, and I leaned in close to him, all the way in, until my face was only an inch away from his. I breathed in deeply through my nose and made a show of smelling his chin, his neck, and his hair. He shuddered quietly, trying to hide his fear.

"You smell like booze." I snarled into his ear. He shivered. "Open the trunk!" I demanded, pulling him outside by his shirt to the car. Reluctantly, but frantically, he searched for the keys in his jeans pocket and unlocked the trunk. Of course, the remainder of the six-pack he had sneaked out of the house was in there. Only two cans were left, still attached to the plastic ring holder. He closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead. I grabbed him and shoved him back inside the house taking the beer with me, without uttering a word. When we were in the living room again, I didn't say anything to him and he didn't say anything either, too scared to speak for himself. I just glared at him, then looked down at the two beers and nodded before swinging the two full cans into the side of his head by the plastic holder. One of the cans crashed into his skull with such force it burst open and spilled its contents all over his shirt and the floor. Nathan yelped and fell to the ground, holding the side of his head and shaking. He tried desperately not to cry as blood trickled past his ear and down the side of his neck. I leaned down to examine the cut, using my fingers to spread the edges of the wound open forcefully just to see how deep it was. Nathan let out another cry of pain but still tried to hold back his tears. "Not too bad," I muttered quietly to myself as I stared at the small gash. Nothing that required stitches anyways. I lifted him up by his shirt and sent my fist hard into the other side of his skull and he shrieked again, but still managed to keep his impending sobs of pain inside, for now. I didn't mind. Nathan was becoming a man after all, it was only natural for him to start thinking it was below his dignity to cry from physical pain. Besides, I loved a challenge. Ego or not, I'd get some loud sobs out of him pretty soon. A punch to the gut, as hard as his growing muscles were becoming, was still no match for my strength. He gave me a quick scream before falling over himself doubled over in pain. Tears flowed down his face freely now as he wept under his breath, biting his lip, still trying to stop himself from losing control. A hard kick in the ribs with my boot fixed that. He howled and clutched his chest as he choked and sobbed, gasping for air. I waited a few minutes before ordering him to get up. He tried to raise himself by his arms, but fell back down in tears.

"I can't!" he wept. "I think my ribs are broken!"

I kneeled down beside him and grabbed his arms. "Move!" I ordered, and pressed my fingers into his ribs, trying to feel around for a break. He squealed and mewed just from the feeling of having my fingers prod about his bruised chest, but when I found a soft yielding spot that sunk in and popped when I pushed against it, he wailed and tried reflexively to push my hands away. He was, of course, unable to do so. Though he was growing up fast and was fairly strong for his age, I was still a great deal bigger and stronger than he was. I spent a few minutes just pinning his arms to the ground and having fun poking my fingers into his broken ribs, listening to his cries of pain grow louder and louder. He was truly in agony as he lay there sobbing and shrieking between each laboured breath. It was intensely painful for him to even breath, let alone cry or scream, but he was unable to help it. Picking up the last beer from the stolen six-pack, I lifted his shirt to see the broken bones, which showed up as a big deep purplish red blotch on the side of his white chest, then I stood over him at full height and zeroed in on the spot, before positioning the beer can. With a chuckle, I opened my hand and let the full can fall and land right on the hole in his ribs. He howled and his body contorted and twisted in agony. After a few hard strained breaths, he vomited a small amount of what looked like white foam on the floor and then lifted his arms up over his face to cradle his own head as he sobbed his misery. When he raised his arms, his torso stretched just enough for the waistband of his black jeans to loosen up around the notebook tucked inside. He shuddered as it fell to the floor and I bent over to retrieve it before he was able to take notice. Scoffing, I flipped through it until I got to the last page that had been written on and there was a phone number scrawled in the pretty handwriting of the beautiful girl he had met that day.

"Hmmm." I exclaimed. "Who's this?" I held the page in front of him and his eyes became downcast.

"Nobody." he coughed.

"Oh really?" I laughed with a hint of sarcasm in my voice. "It sure doesn't look like nobody." I studied the flirty little message left for him by the girl. Her name, Isa Panterez, was signed with a little heart as a dot above the 'I' in Isa, and a bigger heart drawn all around it. Underneath she had written "Call mi! Xo xo xo". With a sneer, I tore the page out in front of him and ripped it up into tiny pieces, then threw the bits of paper at his face. He gave a quick chirp and stared at me with a look of horror, hatred, and deep hurt as the paper bits fluttered down around him.

"You are never to see her again!" I informed him. "What do you think, you're free to piss all your time away with some slag before you're done with school? I don't think so!"

Nathan, crying new tears, raised his head and choked out "No! Why? Why?!"

"Why not?" I replied, tersely with a smirk.

Anger began to grow behind his green eyes, and I watched his face change as it visibly overtook all his other emotions. "Hmm, this should be interesting." I thought to myself. His fists balled up and he began to tremble, not with fear this time, but with rage.

"No, you bastard! You sick fuck!" he yelled in his strained broken voice, staring straight into my eyes. "I fucking hate you, you evil prick! Why are you doing this to me?! Why can't I just have this one thing?! Just this one fucking thing?!"

I reached down and yanked his head up by his hair. He squealed.

"Watch your fucking mouth, you little shit!" I spat into his face.

"Fuck you!" he spat back, momentarily forgetting his agony and fear. I just smiled inwardly to myself. Ripping up the girl's phone number must have really hit a nerve. It dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, I had found his most vulnerable weak spot, and I now held a piece of it in my hands. The part of his life he struggled with every day just to have outside of mine. The only place he could express himself freely, be himself, live for himself, find love and happiness, and grow up to be the person he was supposed to be. A coveted life away from the brutal nightmare he had to muddle through and endure every day at home. I chuckled as I flipped through the rest of his journal. He must have filled it with at least 200 poems, songs, and reflections on the miserable life he had and the one he so badly desired by now. All very personal, very meaningful things to him, for better or worse. I smiled at him as I made my way over to the fireplace, unable to contain my joy. What a simple, yet delicious way to crush this beauty, hurt him deep down to the very core of his soul.

"Oh, don't want to listen to me this time, huh? Fine. Watch this." I pulled a cigarette lighter from my pocket.

"No! NO DON'T...!" he shouted as he struggled to lift himself up. I just laughed as I held the flame to his notebook. The dry paper ignited immediately, and I tossed it into the fireplace shutting the glass doors behind it.

"NOOOO!" he screamed, his eyes lit up and burned with heartbreak and fury.

"I warned you." I laughed, and stood in front of the fireplace smiling right into his pain stricken and horrified face as the book charred to a crisp. The rage that had built up inside him must have been enough to give him a jolt of newfound strength. He finally managed to lift himself off the ground with an agonized wail, which then quickly turned into a loud feral enraged scream, almost like the sound of a battle cry. Then he lunged at me, hands wringing with seething anger. I barely flinched from my position, knowing my strength outmatched his. It didn't take much for me to knock him back down to the ground. But this time, he kept fighting. I was caught completely off guard as he grabbed my leg and sunk his fingernails deep into my calf. I fell backwards and landed on the floor next to him as he clawed and tore into the skin, drawing blood. Then he jumped on top of me with his thighs wrapped around my waist. Howling with a mixture of all the rage and sorrow that had been building up inside him his whole life, he grabbed my head and slammed it into floor. The blow made me black out for a split second and left me dizzy, but I refused to let myself lose consciousness. As I raised my head he punched me in the jaw, knocking me back down, and I felt a little twinge of panic. If I didn't move fast, he could actually win this fight. He grabbed my neck and tried lifting me to bang my head against the ground again, but I knew what to do. Lowering my face to his left arm, I sunk my teeth deep into his flesh and broke the skin, tasting his blood and swallowing it eagerly as it spilled in my mouth. He shrieked in pain and jerked his arm away, flinging blood onto my face and all over the floor. Then I reached up and wrapped my hand around his throat and squeezed hard. He gave a short cry out just before his air supply was blocked off and then began to claw at my hand with anger and panic. I punched him right in his broken ribs and the sound that escaped his obstructed throat was one of a loud snarling retching gag as he tried to scream. I gave him a hard punch to the eye and the same sound was heard, then his head began to lull slightly. I let him fall to the floor. Dazed, he tried to lift himself, but couldn't get back up this time. I stood over him as he lay on his belly helplessly, using his hands to prop himself up as much as he could, glaring at me with teeth clenched and eyes burning like green fire. I stared back at him and noticed myself feeling just a glimmer of admiration, almost an inkling of new found respect for my son. I loved his spirit. His fresh and budding new spirit. The spirit of a fighter and a presser on that I had never noticed in him before was just beginning to emerge before me as we stood there locked in each other's gaze. It was precious and adorable, and even endearing to know that a part of it had come from me. How unfortunate for the both of us that I would have to break it now. I sighed as I undid my belt and like all the times before, I let it dangle momentarily before him. He cried bitter tears but never took his eyes off mine.

"Go ahead and whip me, then." he wept breathlessly. "You can't possibly hurt me anymore than you already have."

I tingled a little bit with excitement upon hearing this, but kept my enthusiasm inside.

"Bzzzzt! Wrong on both counts, kid!" I replied curtly. "First of all, I'm not going to whip you. But trust me, in just a few seconds you'll be wishing I had." I lowered myself down on top of him and sat on the curve of his back, crushing his belly painfully into the floor. He gave a quick shriek and then groaned as the air was slowly pressed out of his diaphragm.

"Second of all, you bet your arse I can hurt you more than I already have. I can hurt you much much more!" I heard him gasp and felt his body jerk with startling realization as I wrapped my belt around his neck from behind. "You've been a very very bad boy today, Nathan! And now you need to be taught a lesson."

I tightened the belt and squeezed hard. Nathan immediately began to gag, cough, and flail as I strangled him. He gripped and clawed desperately at my hands and the belt around his neck, trying his best to rip it free, but to no avail. I wrapped the loose ends of the belt around his neck two more times and pulled even tighter. Then the gagging and coughing stopped, he couldn't even do that anymore, all he could do was kick and squirm and writhe beneath me until after about a minute or so when his movements began to slow and weaken. He was starting to lose consciousness. I loosened the belt to let him catch his breath and he collapsed flat to the floor. He inhaled sharply and deeply, then began to cough, sputter and gasp loudly in and out as he held his neck. A few more coughs and he vomited on the floor again, before turning over on his side and sobbing.

"Having fun yet, Nathan?" I taunted. He looked at me through his red-lidded tear stained eyes, a generic expression of pain and exhaustion on his face. It was hard to tell if he was just scared of me now, or still angry and resentful, or both. In any case he didn't answer me, probably unable to speak. I smirked at him and walked to our coat closet, somewhat dissatisfied with the belt. It just didn't seem poignant enough for the effect I was going for. I needed something stronger, something harsher, something much more painful. I thumbed through several items I found in the dark closet, a few scarves, several other belts, even a stray extension cord that had been unceremoniously thrown in there, probably by my wife, before finding an old dog chain buried under several sweaters. Our dog had died a few years ago, but we still kept the long heavy chain we'd used to tie him up in the yard. Nathan always hated that chain. He thought it was mean to use on our dog, who for throughout most of his childhood, had been one of his best friends. He begged his mother to get rid of that chain so many times behind my back and even went so far once as to try and discard it himself when he thought I wasn't looking, a sin he paid dearly for. I wondered how much more he would hate that chain when it was used on him.

I stretched out a length of the fearsome instrument and sauntered over to him with a huge grin on my face.

"Nathan," I said. "I have a present for you." He shuddered and tried unsuccessfully to lift himself again as I showed him the chain.

"You like your new necklace, kid?" I quipped mockingly. "If I choke you with this, is it going to teach you not to talk back?!" I used the end to whip him on the back of the head and he squealed.

"Yes." he sobbed pathetically, realizing once and for all that he had lost this battle.

"Hmmm." I retorted. "I'm not so sure I should believe you. Oh well, guess there's only one way to find out." I bent down and his strained sobs grew louder.

"No! No wait!..." was all he could get out before I doubled the chain around his neck and squeezed. The worsened pain written all over his face was truly a magnificent sight, and in just a few seconds his lips begin to turn blue. But as the choking continued and his struggle for air grew more desperate, his body became more animated. He was panicking and the adrenaline rush gave him a sudden surge of added strength. The clawing of his hands against my knuckles and face became more concentrated, more calculated, more difficult to ignore. Nathan was trying to pay attention to what he was doing this time in a serious, life and death attempt to break himself free. Then I felt a scratch on my arm so hard, it tore through the skin and drew blood. I let go of my grip on the chain momentarily to break two of his fingers. A breathless, wheezy scream followed. Then I got up to retrieve my belt. Nathan was too weak, too delirious at this point to try running away. He lay on the floor gasping for air and lingered there helplessly as I returned to tie his arms up. I bound his elbows to his forearms and secured the makeshift restraints around his wrists with the buckle behind his head. He couldn't lower his arms, couldn't unbend them, couldn't even move them more than half an inch from one side to the other. I smiled, pleased with my work. I could do so much more with him now. I picked up the can of beer that I had used to smash into his broken ribs and cracked it open towards him, knowing it would spray after being shaken as much as it had. I let the suds fall where they would all over him, then took a swig and set the beer down on our tv table. Then I lifted Nathan, still weak from lack of oxygen, off the floor and carried him over to the couch. After making myself comfortable, I sat him down on my lap facing me with his thighs spread and secured his calves and ankles beneath my knees, trapping him. Then I wrapped the chain around his neck again, gripped it tight at both ends, and pulled hard, letting the heavy steel links dig painfully into his flesh as I slowly choked him off. He retched and hacked and gagged silently as he tried in vain to kick his legs out from under me and struggled desperately against the bonds. For over thirty minutes, I strangled him off and on, almost to the point of unconsciousness, loosening the chain only to allow him to breath just enough to revive himself, before strangling him again as I sipped my beer and stared into his face. Over and over and over again, I choked him. His nose bled and he was drenched in sweat and tears, his black shirt was soaked. With unwavering fascination, I watched the colour in his cheeks change from white to pink to blue and finally to the palest starkest shade I had ever seen him turn. Even his lips were pure paper white now. I giggled, giddy with excitement, and loosened the chain again, to allow him to catch his breath. But this time, instead of the usual frantic gasping and heaving that followed his release, he just sat there slumped over himself. His eyes remained closed and his head bowed. I loosened the chain from his neck a bit more and gave him a few seconds, but still no breathing, no gasping for air. Suddenly I felt a lump grow in my throat, realizing he had also stopped twitching, stopped shaking, in fact he wasn't moving at all.

"Nathan!" I shouted. No response, not even a fluttering of his eyelids. I slapped him across the face. Still nothing. I slapped him again, as hard as I could. Still no movement whatsoever. Beginning to panic, I threw the chain to the floor and lowered him to the couch on his back. His neck was covered in the most hideous looking bruises I had ever seen. No colour was returning to his face. I pressed a finger into his neck and felt for a pulse. My heart pounded with fear when for the first few seconds I felt nothing. I just about pissed myself until finally a very faint, very slow thump of his vein made itself known. He was still alive, but his heartbeat was weak and he wouldn't wake up. I bent over him and breathed deep into his mouth in an attempt at CPR. His chest rose as his lungs filled with air, but he continued to lay there with his eyes closed. His pulse wasn't quickening. I placed my hand under his nose to feel for breath but felt nothing. Groaning a bit, I pressed the sides of my head and pulled anxiously at my hair. He was comatose, almost dead, and I couldn't revive him. I had choked him just a few seconds too long. I looked at my watch and freaked out even more, realizing I had allowed myself to completely lose track of time. How could I have been so reckless? Rose was due to come home any second now and I knew if she walked in on this scene it would be all over. As gullible and steadfast in her denial as she was, even this would never get past her. Panic stricken thoughts began to race through my brain over what to do. I started debating whether or not I should just carry Nathan down to the cellar and finish him off right then. Keep his body hidden in a plastic bin until tomorrow and then call in sick to work and wait until Rose left for her job before I began to cut his corpse apart and dispose of him. If Rose asked me where Nathan was, I could just tell her he had stayed over at a friend's house the night before and gone to school with him. Rose wouldn't start to worry until the next night when Nathan still hadn't come home, but I could have his body out of the house and discarded by then. When she got scared enough to call the cops and they came around asking if we knew what friend he had stayed with, I could say he never told me. All I knew was that he never came back. I spent several seconds entertaining the idea, but in the end I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wasn't ready to give Nathan up yet. Not like that. So I formed a new plan: I found Nathan hanging in his bedroom closet. He had tried to commit suicide and I cut him down in an effort to save his life, but couldn't wake him up. I had to call 911. Yes, that could work. I could say he broke his ribs and fingers and got a black eye in another fight with a nameless neighbourhood bully again. I had made up lies about him getting into fights a lot. Rose always bought them hook line and sinker. She could help me explain to the hospital staff and if needed, the cops, that Nathan being injured in fights was nothing new. Fate might have proven my plan solid, but unfortunately I didn't think of it fast enough. Rose walked through the door while I was still trying to untie his arms. There was no way I could convince her that Nathan had managed to tie his own arms behind his head with such dexterity. Her blood curdling screams made it painfully apparent that the jig was up anyways. Racing thoughts of how to save myself from exposure still ran through my brain. I even considered picking up an iron poker from the fireplace and bashing her in the skull with it until she was dead, but by the time that idea occurred to me, she had already ran to our bedroom and locked the door behind her as she wailed and sobbed into the phone at the 911 dispatcher. The cops and an ambulance were at our house just two minutes later. There was nothing I could possibly say. So I gave up and allowed them to place me under arrest. I didn't resist, I didn't try to run, or even deny what I did. I just told them I wasn't trying to kill my son, I only wanted to play with him. It was all a game to me, I explained to them matter-of-factly with zero emotion in my voice, good, bad or otherwise. They scrawled a few notes and told me to save the rest of my story for the judge, so I did. Nathan was rushed to the hospital and I was carted off to jail where I would languish for 5 months awaiting trial, as the presiding judge over the preliminary hearing refused to grant me bail. Gotta love the US court system.

Despite my initial jailhouse blues, the rest of the process seemed to go along smoothly in my favour. Being a military man got me set up with a fantastic lawyer courtesy of the American taxpayers. By doing just a little bit of arm twisting, he was able to get my venue changed to a judge that had a long reputation for being very lenient, almost to the point of indifference, when it came to domestic abuse cases. A kindred spirit maybe? I sensed a hint of camaraderie in that courtroom between the two of us. It was possible I could have been just imagining it, but in any case, the duration of my trial coasted on by with few hassles. And jail, while boring and inconvenient at first, was easy enough to get used to. I had my own tv, and I was big enough so that nobody tried to pick fights with me. The guards liked me too and were easy for me to charm, but then again most people, in my experience, always have been tragically easy to manipulate. I even convinced a few of them to sneak beer and cigarettes into my cell for me. In time, jail began to feel more like a nice extended holiday from work than any sort of punishment. I got regular phone calls out and spoke at length with Rose, who despite what she had seen the night I was arrested, was still on the fence about which one of us she should support more than the other. It became immediately obvious that she was torn and wanted to help us both. She was still desperate to keep us all together as a family, to make everything work. She said she knew I did a horrible thing, but she just wanted me to come home again, she wanted things to go back to the way they were before I, as she put it, "just snapped". Nathan was still alive and that was all that mattered, she said. The doctors were able to pull him through. He was getting better every day, and had even finally agreed to join the high school football team and the biology lab a few weeks after I was jailed, and even though he believed now that his life was only better without me being there, she was sure that in time, he would forgive me too. God bless my thick skulled, dimwitted wife.

The only truly unpleasant part of my trial was not being allowed in court to hear my son testify against me. He had requested I not be present, he couldn't face me, couldn't look at me, was sure there was no way he could possibly maintain his composure if I was there. And he was terrified of me hearing anything he had to say. The judge ultimately had no choice but to grant his request. It really annoyed me being unable to see him on the witness stand. I knew that no matter how hard he tried not to, he would get emotional having to relive all the pain and misery I had put him through. I was sure he would break down and cry up there, and then become utterly humiliated over having let anyone see him like that. Oh how I loved watching Nathan's beautiful lamentations over me. Whether it was in response to physical, emotional, or reminiscent pain, it never failed to exhilarate me. The worst part of my whole experience within the confines of the justice system was being forced to miss that. I would have died to see it again. My heart sank as I was escorted from the courtroom and made to sit outside, away from the show. In the corridor, my son was rushed past me, arm in arm with his mother and the bailiff, unable to look me in the face or acknowledge me. He looked a lot different since I last saw him just a few months ago. He was taller, and much bigger. Being on the football team at school had caused him to bulk up considerably. He was significantly more muscular, more robust, especially in the arms and chest. I caught a whiff of his scent as he disappeared into the courtroom. He smelled differently than I remembered too, faintly of sweet cocoa butter and sea breeze. I stifled a laugh. "What is he, wearing women's perfume now?" I thought to myself. But an hour later as I saw him leave court, the reason for his smell was made known. Walking forward to greet him was the beautiful girl I had seen him with on the beach that one day. She smelled heavily of the same scent I had detected on him. I then realized that Nathan must have gone back to get in touch with her again, and her odour had rubbed off on him. It only made sense that he would try to reconnect with her now that I was gone and he felt like he could see her without repercussions. They met in the corridor with a kiss and then hugged each other tight. She let his head fall to her shoulder and stroked his hair. He was crying. I felt my spirits begin to lift a little bit. At least I got to see that. My day improved even more as Rose came over to hug me and I got to see the look on Nathan's face when he noticed this. He turned his head away in disgust at his mother and stormed outside, leading his pretty girlfriend hand in hand with him. The look of hurt and betrayal on his face was priceless. I smiled so big, Rose actually thought I was happy to see her.

"Oh god, I missed you too, Oscar." she exclaimed. A few tears made their way down her face. I could tell she wanted to stay there with me forever, but Nathan was out of sight now. I was sick of her already and eager to get rid of her. But before I let her leave, I had one more gift for Nathan.

"Rose," I said. "How involved is Nathan with that girl?"

"Who, Isa?" Rose said. "They're always together. He just loves her. Between you and me, I think he's going to ask her to marry him someday. I've overheard him talking about it a few times with one of his friends." She grinned.

"Hmmmm." I put on a staged frown and nodded. "I see, I see."

"What's wrong?" Rose asked. "She's a very nice girl."

"Ok, Rose, look. I hate to have to tell you this, but I've seen that girl around before. In fact, just before I got locked up I saw her hanging out at the beach, and well, let me just say that she was doing some things her parents would definitely not be proud of." I shook my head.

Rose gasped. "You're kidding! Like what?"

"Well, drugs mostly." I replied seriously. "And other things I can't even repeat with several grown men more than twice her age. All out in public too. Like she didn't even care that anybody could see her. Or maybe she was just so high she forgot where she was. But yeah, she's a real whore. I hate to put you in this position, but I know we both want what's best for Nathan."

"Oh yes, of course!" My wife exclaimed. "I'm so glad you told me! I'm just shocked is all. She always acted like such a sweet young lady around me!"

"Well of course she does!" I said. "You know her type! The whole good girl by day, slag by night routine? That's the type of woman she's well on her way to becoming. She's no lady. Best put a stop to it right now. Don't let her drag Nathan down with her."

"Good god, no!" Rose replied. "Oh my god, where did they go?" She said, just noticing Nathan and the girl were gone.

"I saw them walk outside together just now." I pointed to the door. "Did they come over here with you?"

"Sweet lord! Nathan did! Isa brought her own car! Oh no! He left with her, didn't he? I gotta go, Oscar! I'm sorry! I've gotta find them! For godsake, I've gotta call her parents and tell them what she's been up to!"

She gave me a hasty kiss goodbye and raced out the door. A few weeks later when I called her from jail, she cried as she described to me how much Nathan hated her now. She had told him what I told her about Isa, but he refused to believe it, instead insisting that I was lying and just trying to make his life miserable any way I could. She tried forbidding him to see her any longer, but he flat out refused to stop dating her, so Rose called her parents and started problems with her at home. Though they barely spoke English, they understood it well enough to realize what my wife was saying. Isa got in big trouble and had to spend the next few weeks trying in vain to prove her innocence to her devoutly Catholic family. Rose, in the mean time, became so nasty and hateful towards her, that eventually the poor girl just couldn't take it anymore. She broke up with Nathan, unable to cope with the awful stress and pain of dealing with both his mother and her parents ganging up on her. Naturally, he was heartbroken and furious with Rose for driving Isa away and ruining their relationship. He accused her of always blindly taking my side on everything and was refusing to speak to her now. He swore he'd just about had it with us both. She was hysterical with grief and desperate for advice. Of course, being delighted with the news, I had none to give her. I only told her "Honey, you did the right thing and someday he'll realize that."

How utterly elated I was knowing even jail couldn't keep Nathan completely safe from me. My week only got better as my trial came to a close. After just two months in court, I was convicted on only one count and my brilliant lawyer got me off on all the rest with an insanity plea. The good judge, inexplicably and infamously sympathetic to my kind, sentenced me to probation that could be escalated to a prison sentence only if I failed to comply with the conditions (community service and court ordered therapy), plus only one additional month behind bars for the single guilty conviction, which I was permitted to carry out in the same jail cell where I was already being held. After that month was up, I was allowed to come home for a week to be with family before I had to begin my first portion of therapy, which was set to take place in the county psych ward where I could be monitored closely and evaluated for year or two before they decided whether or not I met the qualifications for outpatient therapy. I had at last faced the consequences of practicing just over 15 years of continued horrific and bloody torture on my own son from the age of one to sixteen and breezed through it in just 7 months, having spent not a single day in prison. I only wished Nathan had been in court the day of my sentencing. I'm sure he must have been devastated by the news.

My final month in jail came and went without incident, except for the day I had to share a phone call with a hysterical and inconsolable Rose rambling on about how Nathan had dropped out of school and left home when he heard I was getting out in just a month, unable to bear the thought of living just one more week in the same house with me. He immediately began making frantic plans to leave somewhere I couldn't find him. Apparently he and a foreign exchange student from Sweden or Germany he was friends with at school had met some washed up ex band member from some faggy glam rock group that was famous back in the 80s or some shit. He told them they both had potential, and he still had a few connections in the music industry from back in his glory days. I laughed and said the guy sounded like a boy hungry paedophile to me and that we'd probably hear about the cops finding the raped and cut up bodies of Nathan and his friend in the news soon. Then she burst into tears. The bitch never could take a joke. She sobbed and told me that Nathan and his friend had moved to another state with this guy and the three of them had an apartment together now. They seemed to be safe. They were trying to start a band, but just as a side project, Nathan said. Their main goal was to run a successful business selling and renting out recording equipment to famous musicians someday, and if the band thing took off, that would be cool too. She said what she was upset about was Nathan quitting school. She cried her heart out over the phone for more than 30 minutes about how rash and foolish Nathan's plans for the future were. She just knew he would never get anywhere as a business owner or a musician and die destitute in a ditch somewhere since he refused to come home. I sat on the phone with her wanting to pound my head against the wall as I tried to pretend I cared about anything she had to say. Really all I wanted was to find out where he lived, but she said he wouldn't give her his address. So I lied and said one of the guards was telling me my phone privileges were almost out and hung up soon afterwards.

Despite being unable to see or hear anything of Nathan's dystopia since he left home and stopped calling Rose, my time in the mental institution wasn't so bad. The staff was more or less pleasant and accommodating, or at the very worst, inattentive. I was allowed weekly visits with family and friends and given my own room. Ironically, the only genuinely unpleasant portion of my sentence began 2 years later when I was finally released from commitment and moved up to outpatient status where my case, as cruel fate would have it, was assigned to you. I guess everybody's streak of good luck runs out eventually.

The last time I saw Nathan was in your office for a mandatory family conference with Rose and myself. She had, once again, through all her unendurable nagging, broken Nathan down and convinced him to attend. I know he agreed to it just to shut her up and get her off his back once and for all, probably planning to change his phone number right after he got back home. He was 18 1/2 years old now, fully grown, and even bigger than he was when I had last seen him at the courthouse. He still hadn't quite managed to make himself bigger than I am, but he had obviously been working out a tonne, most likely building himself up in preparation for meeting me, no doubt believing it would help him feel stronger, not so helpless and weak, around the one man who could still make him cringe in fear. The one man who had abused him all his life. His body was still lean, but he had clearly lifted weights to the point where his muscles had become more than twice their original size. His arms were almost as big as mine, and I could even see the outlines of his six-pack abs through his black sleeveless t-shirt. He filled it out so well it practically looked like a muscle shirt on him. He had grown his gorgeous jet-black hair out long and wore heavy steel-toed boots that made him appear even taller than the 6'0 I estimated he already stood. He looked tough, very tough, and god knows he must have been after everything I'd put him through. Nobody would ever be able to say my son's badass exterior was all just an act. When he walked into the room to join my wife and I, he refused to greet or look at either of us, which greatly upset his mother but pleased me immensely. Despite his size, he still couldn't manage to look me in the face, which gave me a sense of pride as I sat there waiting for this forced introductory meeting to begin. Deep down, he was still afraid of me, still very much hurt and vulnerable over all the things I had done to him. He tried to hide it, tried to keep his eyes averted from mine so he wouldn't give me the satisfaction of seeing the pain that still plastered his face, but I didn't need to look him in the eyes to notice it. I could have recognized it from a mile away with his back turned towards me. When we began talking and you asked Nathan to elaborate on the damage I had done in his life, his voice was so low and gravelly, I barely recognized it as his. His normal speaking voice was always low, at least ever since he started puberty, but never as scratchy and hoarse as he sounded now. Then I remembered Rose telling me that I had crushed and severed more than half his vocal cords the night I strangled him. The surgeons had to perform extensive reconstructive surgery on his voice box and larynx in an attempt to mend his torn up throat and restore his ability to speak, but obviously they weren't able to fix everything back to the way it was before. It made me feel even better listening to him talk. Even though his new voice made him sound tougher, manlier, and more intimidating, I knew that every time he would have to listen to himself from now on, he would always be reminded of the horrific and agonizing night I almost killed him, and unless he stopped talking altogether, there would be no way he could ever completely get away from it, never completely forget. My day got even better as Nathan's rigid iron cast demeanour gradually began to shatter and break down in front of us all while you pushed him to describe in painful detail all the awful and unspeakable ways I had ruined his childhood, his self esteem, and any happiness he had ever felt, including his chances for a future with a nice girl named Cam that could have blossomed into something truly beautiful and meaningful. The first girl he'd met who had given him pleasure unlike anything he'd ever dreamed he could feel and the only sense of self worth he ever knew that he had. He began to cry as you drilled further into his soul and forced him to dig still deeper, much to my amusement. He wept as he recalled some of the horrible things I did to him, like whipping him with a belt and burning him regularly with cigarettes ever since he was five years old and how unrelentingly painful it was, the type of pain you never got used to, no matter how many times you had to go through it. Although he had what resembled a chain smoker's voice, he had never actually seriously taken up smoking cigarettes, saying it made him too uncomfortable. He talked about the time I had ripped out his teeth and his nails, sliced up his nipples and genitals, and even penetrated his urethra with a barbed metal filter brush and the devastating agony it continued to cause him for over half a year afterwards. He said he even had vague memories of me beating him senseless since the age of just one. He suffered horrible flashbacks, constant nightmares, and the unrelenting fear that I was always there waiting for him in the shadows, waiting for the perfect chance to finally knock him over the head, kidnap him, and exact my revenge on him for telling the judge on me.

"I still have trouble going to sleep at night sometimes," he admitted. "I'm worried one day I'll wake up chained down to a rack with my father standing over me. And he'll finally, you know, cut parts of me off and torture me to death, just like he promised."

At this point I had to hide my face so you couldn't see me laughing at yours. You were beet red, sweating, and absolutely mortified by everything my son had said. You looked fucking ridiculous trying to keep up the appearance of professionalism and a cool head. I'll bet you've never heard such god awful acts of depravity in your entire life, in spite of all the years you worked as a court appointed counsellor for the justice system of Florida. My poor beaten broken Nathan wiped slow tears away as he blamed his mother too, much to her chagrin. She always took my side over his, he said. She helped me get away with my abuse all his life. She even helped me ruin his relationship with Isa, a beautiful girl he really loved. He expressed his bitterness and resentment of her freely and unrestrained as he wept about how for all her show she made of doting on him in public, hugging him too much and acting in an overbearing manner, she had failed to love him in the one way he needed. She hadn't protected him, not even once, from me. It took her seeing me almost kill him for her to finally do a damn thing. Rose waited until he was finished then dropped her face into her hands and dissolved into sobs.

"Nathan, please!" she cried. "I didn't know it was this bad, sweetie! I just had no idea it ever got this bad!"

He just stared straight on, refusing to acknowledge her as she tried to make excuses for herself. It was clear he was done with this family, done with this life, and he never wanted to go back to it.

"Nathan," you said, trying to be inconspicuous about rubbing the sweat from your brow. "How long have you felt this way towards your parents?"

Nathan hesitated, trying to swallow a few sobs, before answering. "Well, my mum just in the last two years maybe. I mean, since I moved out and was able to see the situation for- -what it was, but yeah. I kinda, uh, don't like her too much. Huh."

"Oh god!" Rose sobbed.

"I see. And your father?"

Nathan slumped a tiny bit in his chair, his voice broke and a fresh stream of tears made their way down his face, despite his best efforts to hold them back.

"I guess I always hated my father." he responded in a shaky voice. "Yeah, for as long as I can remember."

"Nathan, why don't you tell us, all of us, what we could accomplish in the long run that could change that?"

Nathan just about lost it. He bowed his head and pressed his palms into his eyes, like he was trying to block the tears from falling.

"I don't think there's anything that could possibly change that." he sobbed in a low groaning tone. Then he paused and sat up straight temporarily, while turning his head and gazing off to the side, like he was trying to think. "No." he finally continued. "There's nothing. He ruined everything. I'll always hate him, I just know I will."

Rose continued to sob loudly in her horribly grating obnoxious voice, and you gave me that same smug disgusted look you've given me during every session since. That look that says "See? Look at what you did. Look at how bad you've fucked everything up. Aren't you ashamed?"

And that's when I finally cracked. I was unable to hold it in any longer. I burst out laughing. I sat there and laughed right in your astonished face, then I turned to my son and laughed even harder. I just couldn't help it, I found it so utterly hilarious that you actually thought hearing my son spill his broken heart out over how badly I had messed up his childhood would actually make me feel the least bit sorry, the tiniest bit of regret, over what I had done. If anything, it thrilled me. I sat in my chair beaming and giddy over the deep psychological damage and lasting pain I had inflicted on this unfortunate human being. That was the whole point, after all! That was how I got my fix! And by forcing me to participate in this family session, you had unintentionally helped me achieve another high. You stared at me dumbfounded, trying to figure out my reaction. How could I possibly find what my son said even remotely amusing? But Nathan knew exactly why I was laughing. He had realized our dynamic years ago. His father was a sadist, and his own son was his favourite toy. His pain only served as my pleasure, my drug of choice. That was what killed him most of all. He bent down over his lap and held his stomach and chest in his hands, his heart breaking right in front of me for easily the hundredth time in his life. He couldn't look at me, but I didn't take my eyes off him. I knew it could very well be the last time I would ever get to see this happen again and I wanted to savour it. Another beautiful memory to add to my mental bank and daydream about later, to enjoy and relive long after he was gone. I felt a brief rush of ecstasy as he suddenly stood up, a look of complete horror and anguish on his face.

"Oh god..." he exclaimed, completely distraught, his hand over his mouth, then he turned around and rushed for the door.

"No Nathan! Nathan please!" his mother begged, following after him, but not quite brave enough to leave the office herself. She just stood in the open doorway and wept with grief as she stared out, eyes pleading with him to come back. He ignored her and instead ran straight ahead to the waiting area towards a few guys I had never seen before. I joined Rose in the doorway to enjoy this moment for myself. A short bloke with a receding hairline, probably in his mid to late 20's, standing at only about 5'6 with freckles on his tiny nose and ridiculous hot poker-orange dreadlocks, and a towering 6'3 lanky kid with long blonde hair who looked about Nathan's age stood up from their chairs immediately to greet him. I suddenly realized that these must have been the two chaps he had run away from home with. I was surprised to see they had actually come out all this way with him just to accompany him on this meeting and were willing to wait around for him to get out. It must have been so extremely difficult for him to sit face to face with me again that he would need the support of his friends just to show up. There were two other men with them as well. An ugly awkward looking guy even dumber looking than the short ginger with an even more ridiculous puffy feathered chin length hair-do, and a bloke who looked to be about in his late 30's-early 40's with long wavy brown hair. This was clearly the band that Nathan had told his mother about, but more importantly, I realized this was Nathan's new family. This sad, scruffy looking bunch of misfits were who Nathan had run to and chosen to adopt as his new fathers, his new brothers, his new life away from his mother and I. How pathetic, I thought, that these dipshits were the closest thing to a loving supportive family he would probably ever find for the rest of his life. It only made me happier to see how badly I had broken him. The redhead was the first to hurry towards my son, followed closely by the blonde and then, with slight hesitation, the ugly guy with his horrible puffy hair. The older bloke with the wavy locks got up last and followed slowly behind, seeming to be the only one in the group more or less indifferent to Nathan's suffering. I wasn't sure what that was about, maybe he was just a cold selfish son of a bitch like me. How deliciously ironic would it be for Nathan to have unwittingly invited another one of those types into his new life he was trying to build for himself. I smiled.

The redhead swiftly extended his hand towards my son and grabbed his shoulder. "Oh my god, Nat'n! What's wrahng? You oo-kay?" he said in a ludicrous Yooper Midwestern accent that I had to bite my tongue not to laugh out loud at.

"Let's go, let's just go." Nathan groaned, trying his best to not completely break down. He sobbed as quietly as he could manage, but it was still noticeable and the extent of his upset was very apparent. He had to actually be helped walking out the rest of the way.

"Oo-kay oo-kay," the redhead said. "Let's just- - getcha back to da car 'den, heh?"

The ginger and the tall blonde kid helped hold Nathan up by his armpits as they led him out, trying to glance inconspicuously over their shoulders at me, with genuine expressions of concern for my son. The ugly pug faced guy with the puffy hair placed a timid hand on Nathan's back and looked back at me too. But none of them dared say a word to my face.

"What the hells happeneds in there?" the blonde asked in a thick, almost incoherent Scandinavian type accent, before they disappeared out of sight around a corner towards the door to the outside. I could still hear his friends talking through the cold echoey hall as they walked out of the building.

"Yeah! What the fuck? You don't cry! Well, not in front of people anywayzh. I mean, I've scheen you in your room a few timesh when you sthought nobody wazsh looking, but..."

"Dood, Murderface, shut the fuck up! Now is naht the time, oo-kay? Really!"

"Whaaaat?! I'm jusht shaying!"...

I breathed in deep with a huge grin on my face and turned to my wife.

"Well," I began, as we headed back to our chairs. "They look like a friendly little orgy of fags, huh?"

Rose began to cry harder. "Oh, Oscar, please?!" she sobbed and punched me in the shoulder.

"Oh please, what?" I mocked. "Like you weren't thinking the same thing! You saw those queers! Hey, did Nathan ever find a job over there? If not, I guess they're letting him pay his rent in other ways, right? That redhead, he looks like a wily little pervert, doesn't he? And that older chap, I don't even wanna think about what he's doing hanging around a bunch of guys at least ten years younger than he is!" I guffawed while Rose just bawled.

"Oh god, take a joke once in a while, bitch, jeez!" I chortled as I got comfortable in my chair.

"Mr. Explosion!" you shouted in a tone almost as arrogant and smug as your shitlicking face. "Due to your obvious lack of remorse, as well as your painfully weak grasp on the situation, and the horrible damage you've done to your own son, I'm going to recommend to the court that you attend weekly mandatory sessions here at my office! Any failure to comply on your part will result in immediate revocation of your probationary status and instant reinstatement of your prison sentence! Do I make myself clear?!"

"Yeah, whatever!" I swigged down the rest of my water and tossed the cup across the room in the opposite direction of the waste bin.

"And if we don't make any progress with traditional behavioural therapy, as I suspect we won't, I'll be putting in a word for an extensive drug treatment regimen as well." You turned your nose up like the snob you are and scrawled something hastily on your clipboard. "I've seen enough, we're done for the day! You're excused, Mr. Explosion!"

"Well it's about fucking time!" I got up, grabbed my sobbing wife by the wrist, and left, knowing from the first day we met that we didn't hit it off and we never would. And yet, just a few weeks later, here you are telling me to bare my soul to you, or face the consequences of my noncompliance.

Well then, while I'm being forced to bare my soul here, doc, I suppose I might as well tell you that I never once planned on any sort of future relationship with my son, so I really wish you would stop asking if I ever bothered to think about how my abuse of Nathan as a child would go on to effect his stupid feelings towards me later on in his adult life. The answer is no, and I'll gladly tell you why: he was never supposed to have any, and when I say 'never have any' I mean that quite literally. If everything had gone the way I had intended it, Nathan would've never lived longer than a day past his 18th birthday. You see, I always knew my son would have definitely tried to up and move out of the house the very day he turned 18, and nothing anybody could do or say would have convinced him otherwise. He wanted to get away from me as quickly as possible, and he would have never spoken to me again. It left me with both a horrible dilemma and a delightful opportunity I had never before been afforded. There was nothing I could do to keep Nathan around. I couldn't legally force him to stay, I could never coax him either. Keeping him locked up downstairs in the cellar was no option, seeing as how Rose would inevitably find out and let him go and I would most certainly be arrested on kidnapping and false imprisonment charges. So I really had only two options: either simply allow Nathan to just leave and begin his new life somewhere else I could never have access to him again, or enjoy my very last night with him to the fullest extent possible and send him off myself with a fucking bang. The answer should be obvious to you, I'm sure. Nathan as an adult, with all the legal rights of a free man, was no use to me. I could no longer use him as a means to satisfy my urges, my baser desires to inflict unbearable suffering on another human being. Without him around, I knew I would soon go crazy with no more outlet and no more practical way to find my release. So why should I simply let him go with no further incident? How much sense would that possibly make to me? Since I was fated to lose Nathan no matter what in just a couple of years, I knew I would have to do something major, something drastic, something far over the top if there was even the slightest hope of keeping myself satiated for the rest of my life without having him there to tear into ever again. It was a long shot, but I was ready for it, and in any case it would have been a fucking blast while it lasted. Nathan never knew this and I have zero intentions of telling him at this point, but my plans of torturing him to death were far from just threats, nor were they ever simply meant to serve as only dire consequences of his would-be treachery. It ultimately wouldn't have mattered to Nathan if he had reported me to the police or not, he was still headed for the same destiny at the age of 18 either way. My final birthday gift to him was to be an entire night's worth of unspeakable pain, the likes of which he could never begin to comprehend or imagine, not even in his worst nightmares. Everything I had done to him prior to this, from the teeth pulling to the genital mutilating to the worst burns I had ever put on his body, would have paled dismally in comparison to what I had planned for him on his last night. Even the bloody torture I had threatened in detail to inflict on him if he ever squealed to the cops would have been _nothing_ compared to all of what I was going to do to him in real life. 12 whole long hours of the cruellest, goriest, most brutal acts of excruciating torture known to man awaited him, and the plans I had made to discard his body were absolutely real too. And Rose, no need to worry about her. Nathan would have unknowingly helped me out with that one by telling her he was leaving himself. She would expect him to be gone the next day. She would have no reason to go searching for him after he disappeared. Any failure of his to contact her within the next few weeks could have been brushed off as just an ungrateful child refusing to stay in touch with his overly possessive mother. By the time she noticed anything was amiss, he would have been long gone, the scattered bones of his skeleton resting at the bottom of a swamp being further picked at and devoured by the fish and alligators that dwelled there. The cops wouldn't have been able to prove anything even if they did begin to suspect me. What fun, after all, is giving up your favourite drug, never to be enjoyed again, if you can't over use the hell out of it one more time before you go cold turkey? What addict doesn't want to achieve the greatest high of all before they are forced to get clean? The only difference between them and myself is they will never catch the dragon no matter how many times they try to chase it, but I know that I could have, and I certainly would have on the last excruciating night of my son's tragic life if I had only exercised just a little bit more control over myself with him and not sent him to the hospital. That's my only true regret, I guess. Exposing myself to the legal system before I ever got to celebrate Nathan's 18th birthday.

The opportunity is dead now. My son is gone, I don't know where he lives, and even if I found out, he has that group of losers he stays with looking out for him now. My one comfort is the fact that you will read this soon, and as horrified and angered and disgusted as you'll be, there's still absolutely nothing you can do to further my punishment over anything I have expounded upon today. This whole assignment in which I am forced to confess everything I've ever done and thought that has landed me where I am was all your idea. I think as long as we're being honest with each other, we can both agree that I have gone above and beyond what was expected of me. If it wasn't what you wanted to hear, I can't be faulted for that. After all this assignment is meant to benefit the patient, not the psychologist, am I right? And it worked, I think I do feel better now. Besides, legally, I am spoken for. I have already been convicted by a jury of my peers and sentenced by the wonderful Judge Combikriss. I can't be tried for the same thing twice, those are my rights as a citizen. Isn't America great, Doctor? I never actually killed anyone. I just wanted to, and sure I threatened to, but that's a crime I have already paid for with my time served. I may be sick, twisted, and fucked up in the head, but we both know I am not clinically insane. Everything was premeditated and I knew exactly what I was doing. You can't send me back to the psych ward anyways. I have already been officially declared fit for outpatient treatment. Oh, you can try to do whatever is in your power to make things difficult for me. You can force me to attend these boring and pointless therapy sessions, you can even try to make my life miserable by prescribing your stupid drug treatment cycles, but you'll never truly get what you want out of me. I will never be sorry for anything I did. I will never feel any guilt over the pain I have caused my son. Any further attempt on your part to try and make me will be a complete waste of your time. What part of "I did it on purpose" do you not understand?

And who knows? Maybe you are a miracle worker and maybe in several years you can help fix my nonexistent relationship with my poor emotionally devastated Nathan. Maybe someday because of your efforts, we'll be carrying on like best buddies drinking together and going on fishing and hunting trips like you say we were supposed to when he was a kid. Don't hold your breath, doc, but it's nice to have a dream, isn't it? But don't you ever expect me to apologize to him or feel the tiniest bit of remorse for my past. Everything was intentional and I enjoyed every fucking second of it. The one thing you will never be able to do is make me grow a conscience. I wasn't born with one. I am a true blue sociopath with a brutal sadistic streak that I live day-to-day to satisfy, your worst nightmare as a court ordered shrink. You can't reason with our kind, you can't change who we are. You can only attempt to mould us and reshape us into the sorts of people who can function on an acceptable level and be reintroduced into society after the fact. But you will never have the slightest effect on who we really are inside. Only living for the moment, only wishing to act according to our own indulgences, and only thinking and caring for ourselves. And that, in conclusion, is why you insist I need your pointless therapy.

The end!

_Dr. Meisuggah's observation/diagnosis [submission to court]: My god! This guy is a fucking psychopath! I have never met anybody so fucking sick and twisted and deviated in my entire career! _

_Recommendation for treatment: Extensive drug therapy, mental reprogramming, hypnotism, behavioural rehabilitation, and possibly even shock therapy. Brain surgery not out of the question. _

_Additional comments: Patient is still a potential threat to other human beings and society as a whole. Suggesting court ordered sterilization and perhaps even relocation. Patient should not be allowed to ever have another child, adopt a child, or come within a mile wide radius of other families with teenagers, children, or infants! Duration of therapy sessions shall remain indefinite until further notice. Keep this sick bastard the fuck on radar! This is going to take a long long time! _


End file.
